


the sea, the sea, it calls to me

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Erik Has Feelings, Lighthouses, M/M, Magical Realism, Selkies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: When lighthouse keeper Erik finds an injured boy washed up on the shore of his isolated island, the last thing he expects is for the boy to harbor a fantastical secret that blows open all his preconceived notions of the world — and of love.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 41
Kudos: 160
Collections: X-Men X-Traordinaire's Cherik Valentine's Day Exchange





	the sea, the sea, it calls to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InsertSthMeaningful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/gifts).



> 1\. Most of my reference for life as a lighthouse keeper came from [this helpful blog.](https://www.thelighthousekeepers.org/home/2017/11/20/a-day-in-the-life)
> 
> 2\. Please forgive any butchering of the Irish language. Google translate helped me out but you know how that is. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this, insertsthmeaningful! I had a lot of fun writing it!

The boy woke lucid on the third day.

Erik had been up since 0500, as always. He rolled out of the makeshift pallet on the floor of the bedroom and dressed in the dark, pulling on his layers: thermal underwear, t-shirt, sweater, thick trousers, wool socks, and heavy overcoat. Stamping his boots on, he made his way to the door. No flicking on the light — he’d made that mistake his first week here, had instinctively turned the lights on and destroyed his night vision in the process. Lesson learned: ever since then, the lights stayed decidedly off in the mornings.

Alba followed him to the door, his faithful shadow. She whined hopefully as he passed the kitchenette, and he huffed at her. “You never give up, do you? Come on, you know the routine. Weather first, breakfast after.”

She wagged her tail and grinned at him, tongue lolling. When he opened the door, she trotted out on his heels, undeterred by the icy wind that coursed down the slant of the island toward them. Even in a storm, she made the trip to the weather station with him every morning. If he ever tried to leave her behind, she’d scrabble madly at the door and howl like a banshee until he relented. 

This morning, for the first time in nearly a week, Erik sensed no storms on the horizon. The air was frigid and sharp, but the path up to the weather station was dry — or as dry as it ever got anyway, lightly misted by the ocean spray. Hands tucked deep in his pockets, he followed the dim light of his head torch along the dirt track, noting places where grass was springing up and blurring the edges of the trail. He’d need to give it a trim later. Maybe after he checked the buildings for mold spots — he’d been putting that off for several days now, and the last thing he needed was an epidemic. 

As he neared the squat, lonely form of the weather station, Alba galloped on ahead, eager to be in out of the cold. Erik unlatched the door and pushed it open with a nudge of his powers, and she slipped in a minute before he did and was curled up in her usual nest of blankets under the desk by the time he made it in. She thumped her tail as he booted up the laptop — as ancient and glacially slow as most of the equipment on this half-forgotten island — and picked up the binoculars. As usual, there wasn’t much to see this early in the morning, but over the last few years, he’d grown very familiar with the local landmarks: the rocky outcropping only twenty meters off that looked like a tern with wings tucked, the enormous cliffside three hundred meters to the northwest that resembled the profile of a dignified woman looking to the sky, and, several hundreds of kilometers beyond that, the very distant slopes of the mainland. Those weren’t evident today, obscured by a gentle fog that nevertheless revealed the woman gazing at the stars, so Erik estimated visibility was about three hundred meters.

The laptop beeped sullenly as it came fully awake. Erik pulled up the recorded weather data for yesterday, gave the numbers a quick scan, and found nothing amiss. Satisfied, he spent the next few minutes jotting down the rest of his observations: wind speed and direction, barometer pressure, observed swell height (the sea was calmer today than it had been in days, which was heartening), and cloud data.

Alba whuffed and thrust her face between his knees. “Alright, alright,” he said, pushing her gently back under the desk, “I’m almost done.” 

Ten minutes later, he’d transferred the data recorded in his journal to the bureau spreadsheet and submitted it. Most of those ten minutes were spent waiting for the data to actually transmit, and once the laptop rattled and beeped an exhausted confirmation, he shut it down, stowed the weather journal in the desk’s top drawer, and stood up.

Alba shot out from under the desk so quickly she nearly took his legs out from under him. Grumbling softly under his breath, he gestured the door open and followed her back to the house. 

The instant Erik stepped in through the door, some innate danger sense prickled at the back of his neck. Alba bounded in carelessly, but Erik stopped in the threshold and ran his metal-sense out through the house. Nothing registered as different or out of place, but _something_ had changed. The air had shifted in some slight, nearly imperceptible way.

Guardedly, Erik closed the door behind him and scrutinized the room. Again, nothing called attention to itself. Slowly, he made his way to the half-open door of the bedroom — and froze a step short of entering.

The boy was awake. He was sitting up in Erik’s bed, dark hair in disarray, blankets pooled around his waist. As soon as Erik neared the door, the boy’s eyes darted up, and their gazes locked.

For a long minute, they simply stared at each other. The boy’s face flickered with a mixture of surprise, confusion, uncertainty, and wariness. Erik was sure the same array of emotions was written across his own face for a moment before he wrestled his expression back under control.

“You’re awake,” he said finally, at a loss for what else to say. Honestly, after the last three days of fevers, night sweats, and delirium, Erik had half-expected the boy to die before they had any opportunity to exchange words. 

The boy nodded slowly. His eyes were an odd, piercing blue that seemed too bright for the dim light of the room, not quite glowing but close. Unconscious or delirious, he had seemed utterly normal, save for the fact that he had washed up onto Erik’s shores out of nowhere, battered and bloody and naked. But now, awake and apparently lucid for the first time, he seemed…strange somehow. _Different_ in a way that Erik couldn’t quite put his finger on, though it made him uneasy all the same.

“Who are you?”

The boy gave him a blank stare.

Erik pushed the door fully open to get a better look at the kid. He was making himself small in Erik’s bed, shoulders hunched, arms drawn in close. Instead of stepping into the room, Erik leaned back on his heels slightly, not wanting to make the boy feel cornered. “What’s your name?”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to ask: the boy immediately stiffened, eyes shuttering in suspicion. The sheer menace in his expression had Erik reflexively throwing up his hands. “You don’t want to say?” A vigorous shake of the head. “Alright. Where did you come from then?”

He was treated with another empty stare.

Well this was going nowhere fast. Clearly the boy understood his questions, or at least he understood enough to answer, or not answer. So the problem lay elsewhere. Sighing, Erik asked, “Can you talk?”

The boy hesitated for a second before nodding.

“English?”

There was a pause. Erik said, “ _Deutsche? Français? Español?”_

“English,” the boy said. The word sounded as if it had been scraped from his throat, inch by grating inch. He seemed almost surprised at the sound of his own voice: his hand flew up to his neck and pressed there for a moment before he recovered himself and dropped his hand again, a slight flush rising to his pale cheeks. “English is fine.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I…”

“Were you on a ship?”

“No, I was…yes. A ship.”

“No? Or yes?”

“Yes,” the boy said more strongly this time. “A ship.”

“What kind of ship?” The boy didn’t have the look of a sailor. He had the look of a tourist, or maybe one of those bluebloods who spent half the year sailing from port to port on a yacht full of other equally vapid socialites.

“A big one?” the boy said.

Erik raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking _me?”_

Oddly, panic flashed through the boy’s eyes. Erik frowned, but before he could say anything, the boy blurted out, “A yacht. A big one. With lots of people on it.”

Well he certainly had the accent for it — now that his voice had shaken off some of its rust, Erik could hear that crisp BBC English. “So what happened? Had a little too much and fell overboard?”

Slowly, the boy nodded.

Erik snorted. “I suppose that explains why you were naked.”

The boy’s eyes widened. His hands, which had until now been lying passively on the covers, suddenly had the blankets gripped into two tight fists. “Naked? Was there…did I have anything on? I had…”

“You were lying under a…” Erik searched for an appropriate word. “…a sealskin?” He’d never seen one in person before, but he was pretty sure that the covering couldn’t have been anything else, what with its distinct dappled pattern and soft grey fur. 

“Where is it?” the boy breathed.

There was such terror in his eyes that Erik held up his hands again. “Relax. It’s in the closet, safe.”

“Safe. Yes.” The boy didn’t seem reassured, but the whiteness in his knuckles eased. After a moment, his gaze raked over Erik’s face, dark eyebrows knitting together. “Who are you?”

“I’m the lightkeeper.”

“Lightkeeper?”

“I take care of the lighthouse.”

“The lighthouse.” The boy spoke the words slowly and uncomprehendingly, as if he had never encountered them before. “What is — ”

He cut off with a sharp inhalation. Erik twisted, searching for the source of his surprise, and found Alba pressing in behind his legs, curious and probably impatient for her breakfast.

“A dog,” the boy said with the kind of astonishment most people would use if they were saying, _A lion!_ or _A dragon!_

“Yeah?” Erik said, a bit surprised by his surprise. He caught Alba by the collar before she could worm in between his legs and the doorjamb. “Are you alright with dogs?”

“I…I’ve never met one before.”

“What?”

“I — I mean, not one like _that…_ ” The boy tore his gaze from Alba and met Erik’s eyes again. “Right?” he added, hesitant.

“Who _are_ you?” Even for a trust fund kid with far more money than brains, the boy was strange as hell. When he tensed again at the question, Erik said impatiently, “Look, I don’t care who you are. It doesn’t matter to me one way or another. But there’s bound to be people looking for you. Your friends?”

Blank stare.

“Your family?”

Now the boy glanced away.

Erik sighed. “What’s the name of the ship, and where were you headed? I’ll radio the mainland so they can send someone to come get you ASAP.” It had been raining like hell over the last few days, but with the skies clearing up, emergency services should be able to send over a chopper. Erik had meant to radio in the incident on that first night when he’d dragged the boy unconscious out of the surf, but the storm had been so heavy and fierce that communication had been sporadic. Now, with the calmer weather, the radio signal would be fine. 

“Who will come get me?” the boy asked, frowning.

“Coastguards probably. Search and rescue.”

“Where will they take me?”

“To hospital. Then to the police, I imagine. I’m sure your friends have reported you missing already. It’s been three days.”

“Is it very far?”

“What, the mainland? It’s about an hour by chopper.”

“Chopper,” the boy echoed doubtfully.

Erik took a good long look at him. He was, what — twenty? Twenty-one? He had the kind of pale skin that looked as if it would burn instantly in the sun. Faint freckles dotted his cheeks, darker over the bridge of his nose. His body had seen few, if any, hardships in life; Erik had checked him over for injuries on that first night and aside from the obvious wounds, the boy had no scars, no callouses. His hands were as smooth as the stones Erik sometimes found in the surf, polished to a shine by countless waves.

He certainly looked innocent. If this was an act, Erik had no idea what game the boy was playing. If it wasn’t, then he had to be the most clueless twit to ever fall off a yacht in a drunken stupor, which was saying something.

“Do you have any idea where you are now?” Erik asked as patiently as he could manage.

The boy bit his lip. “No?”

“Genosha Island. We’re about a hundred miles off the coast of Scotland.”

Faint recognition stirred in the boy’s eyes. “Scotland.”

“Where are you from?” London, if Erik had to guess, judging by that accent. Or Oxford.

“London,” the boy said after a moment. He didn’t sound entirely sure of himself.

Erik considered pursuing it for a second, then decided it wasn’t any of his business. The police could sort it out whenever he got back to the mainland. “Stay there. Rest. I’ll radio over, and with any luck, you’ll be back home before tomorrow.”

“Is London very far?”

Christ, was the boy really that ignorant? Or had he taken a good knock to the head when he’d fallen overboard? 

“Let me feed my dog. Then I’ll get you a map,” Erik said dryly.

Alba was obviously curious about the newcomer, but the moment Erik moved toward the kitchen, she pranced after him, all thoughts of the boy forgotten. He gave her a scoop of kibble and started a pot of coffee as she crunched madly in the corner. The Keurig had just begun to spit and splutter when a solid _thump_ echoed from the bedroom, followed by a sharp, ragged gasp of agony.

By the time Erik reached him, the boy was pushing himself up from the tangle of blankets, his face white. “What — ” His voice was high with fear and pain. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Your leg’s broken, you idiot,” Erik said, both amazed and incredulous that the boy had tried to get out of bed. “What were you thinking, trying to get up?”

“It hurts,” the boy whimpered.

“Of course it does, it’s a fucking broken bone. Stay still.” Carefully, Erik extricated his legs from the blankets. He’d dressed the boy in one of his spare flannel pajama pants, and even without rolling up the pant leg, he could see the odd jut at the boy’s left shin. When he shifted the fabric to take a look, the boy flinched and hissed.

“Hold still,” Erik chided.

“It _hurts_.”

The boy’s shin was badly bruised, a patch of purple, blue, and black. Thankfully, the bone hadn’t broken skin. The rudimentary first aid courses Erik had had to pass before they’d stationed him on Genosha hadn’t covered broken bones beyond the basics: immobilize, stop any bleeding, call 999. There wasn’t much he could do for a broken leg here on the island, but he figured an open fracture would have complicated things even further.

The boy yelped and shifted. Erik froze, fingers hovering over his leg. When he looked up, he realized the boy was twisting away from Alba, who had snuck up beside them, tail wagging, and was in the process of licking the boy’s face.

“Alba,” Erik said sharply, “sit.”

She sat, feathery tail still whacking furiously. 

“She’s…wet!” the boy exclaimed, wiping at his face. 

“Sorry,” Erik muttered. “She’s like that with everyone.”

“Was she… _tasting_ me?”

“What?” Erik would have thought the kid was pulling his leg if not for the look of genuine alarm on his face. Sitting back on his heels, Erik scrutinized the boy for a long moment. “You’ve really never seen a dog before, have you?”

“Well I — I mean I’ve _seen…_ not this one, obviously, but…”

He trailed off, shoulders slumping in resignation. They both knew he was lying.

Erik sat down and leaned his shoulder against the bed. “Where did you say you’re from again?”

“London.”

“Where in London?”

“What do you mean?”

Erik glowered. The boy swallowed.

“…The north part?” he ventured after a moment.

“The north part. Right.” Erik fixed him with his most withering glare, the one Magda had once told him could knock anyone with a weak constitution into a dead faint. “Who are you, really? Don’t forget that I’m standing between you and an airlift to hospital, so I’d think twice about lying.”

The boy shrank back, his eyes darting from Erik to the door and back. “I…”

“Yes?”

“I think you should go to sleep.”

“What?”

And then the world tilted sideways, and Erik fell into blackness.

*

He woke to the familiar sensation of Alba licking sloppily at his cheeks, then his ear. As she started to lap at the corner of his mouth, Erik spluttered and twisted away. “What are you — Alba, _stop_ — ”

She whined, low and distressed. Erik cracked his eyes open blearily and found himself sprawled on the cold concrete floor of the bedroom. Why the hell was he on the floor? And why were all his blankets in a heap on the floor? And why was there _blood…?_

Memories of the boy came flooding back in a rush, jolting him upright. “Fuck!” 

Alba leaped back in alarm at the exclamation. Erik stumbled to his feet and instinctively swept the house with his powers. He felt no movement — of course he didn’t, the boy was in pajamas, not a lick of metal on him — but the front door was ajar. The bitter autumn cold swept through the house in intermittent gusts of icy wind, whistling as it cut across the open door. The boy must have left some time ago, judging by the fact that the chill had reached even the bedroom in the back.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

Erik staggered out of the room. His head throbbed like someone had wrenched it up off his shoulders and given it several vigorous shakes before setting it back on. As he reached the front of the house, a fierce blast of wind nearly sent the open closet door slamming into his face. He caught it on his arm just in time to save himself from a black eye and realized his coats, scarves, and spare boots were strewn across the entrance. The boy had stopped to ransack the closet? But he hadn’t taken anything — Erik’s heavy winter coat was still there, as was his down jacket, and his scarves, and gloves.

Then he remembered — the boy’s sealskin cloak. It was gone.

“Stupid,” he muttered, seizing his winter coat from the floor. “Idiot kid.”

Alba followed on his heels as he bolted out into the cold. Twenty meters from the house, the dirt path diverged into three tracks: one that led up to the weather station, one that slanted over to the lighthouse and generator shed, and one that sloped down toward the sea. Erik didn’t even need to pause — the drag marks in the dirt pointed the way, and, sensing a chase, Alba rushed on ahead of him to the ocean, barking excitedly.

The boy lay slumped by one of the shallow tidepools, seafoam coursing over his still body. For a second he seemed terrifyingly close to dead, but as Erik skidded to a stop beside him, he turned his head to look up, eyes dull.

“What,” Erik spat, “the hell were you thinking?”

“I can’t swim,” the boy said quietly.

“What?”

“I can’t swim. With…” He glanced down.

“Of course you can’t. Your leg’s fucking _broken_. What part of that don’t you understand?”

The boy’s expression crumpled. Quickly, he turned his face away toward the rocks, but there was no hiding the way his shoulders trembled, not with the cold but with emotion. He was…crying. 

Fuck. Erik stared down at him, utterly at a loss. He had never been particularly adept at handling his own feelings, let alone navigating anyone else’s. After a minute, not knowing what else to do, he knelt and threw his winter coat over the boy’s form. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “You’re going to freeze to death out here.”

The boy didn’t budge.

Erik gritted his teeth. “Fuck, kid, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to yell at you. Now can we please go back to the house before you die of exposure?”

When the boy still didn’t respond, Erik sighed and glanced around. He found the sealskin cloak lying at the boy’s feet and drew it up over the winter coat. Then he took hold of the boy’s arm, intending to pull him upright.

As soon as his hand made contact, the boy jerked violently away. Cursing, Erik grabbed at him before he fell over the edge into the tidepool. Instead of calming, the boy thrashed in his hold like a fish in a net. He was much stronger than he looked, nearly squirming out of Erik’s grasp. “Stop!” Erik snapped. “You’re going to hurt yourself even more if you — ”

A flailing elbow caught him in the jaw. Startled by the burst of pain, he lost his grip, and the boy scrambled away from him, somehow managing not to slip right off the slick rocks and into the water. He seemed terribly small all of sudden, hunched up defensively, chest heaving, staring up at Erik with frightened, red-rimmed eyes. After a moment, he said tremulously, “Don’t hurt me. Please.” 

Erik gaped at him, flabbergasted. “Why on earth would I hurt you?”

“It’s what your kind do to mine.”

“My _kind?”_ Then realization struck, and Erik’s stomach dropped. “Fuck. Jesus. I’m not — I’m not a baseline. I’m a mutant, too. See?” He dipped his hand into his jacket pocket and scooped out the scrap metal he always kept on him to fidget with: a melted ball of fishhooks, paperclips, and loose screws. With a nudge of his powers, the pieces wiggled and separated and started to spin in a tight circle around his hand. “See?”

The boy’s eyes were wide and shocked. Slowly, he gathered Erik’s coat more securely around his shoulders and leaned forward, his expression mesmerized. “You’re…?”

“Magnokinetic,” Erik told him. “And you…” He frowned. “You put me to sleep.”

Fear chased the awe from the boy’s face. Fingers clutched tight around the lapels of Erik’s coat, he said, “I…I wasn’t…”

“I’m not angry.” Erik was a bit surprised to realize that that was true — he was more curious than anything. “What’s your power?”

The boy hesitated for a long while. Then, at last, he said, “Your thoughts — I hear them.”

“You’re a telepath?”

Another hesitation, then a nod.

He had to be powerful if he’d managed to knock Erik unconscious with only a thought. Erik’s memories of the classic psionic ranking chart were hazy — it had been years since his Mutant Sciences class in university — but he reckoned the boy ranked at Sigma-level at least. Possibly higher.

“Well I’m not going to hurt you,” Erik said. “Come on. It’s freezing out here. Let’s get back to the house and then we can talk.”

After a pause, the boy sighed and nodded his acquiescence.

Getting back to the house was easier said than done. Erik had no idea how the kid had made it all the way down to the sea on his own, but he could barely stand now. With Erik supporting the boy’s bad side and Alba running circles around them barking helpfully, they staggered back up the slope step by faltering step. At first the boy seemed determined to keep some distance between them, but it wasn’t long before he gave up any semblance of pride and leaned nearly all his weight on Erik’s arm, whimpers muffled behind clenched teeth.

As they crested the hill and reached level ground, the boy’s shoulders slumped in obvious relief. His sealskin cloak, already haphazardly wrapped around him, slipped off at the motion. “I’ll get it later — ” Erik started to say, but he had hardly opened his mouth before the boy whirled with a frantic gasp, almost unbalancing them both. Erik skidded back on his heels as counterpoint to the boy’s weight, cursing as he seized handfuls of the winter coat.

“Please.” The boy struggled weakly in Erik’s grasp. “Don’t — ”

“Leave it, I’ll get it later,” Erik growled, exasperated.

The boy’s eyes flashed with unexpected heat. “No.”

“I haven’t got the hands and you — ”

“I’m not going anywhere without it.”

“You’re not — ” For a second, Erik contemplated shaking some sense into him. Judging by the stubborn jut of the boy’s chin though, Erik would be stuck shaking him for the rest of time. “ _Fine_.”

Awkwardly, he managed to bend over and snag the cloak up from the ground without releasing his grip on the boy. As soon as he thrust the covering over, the boy pressed it to his chest like he was trying to soothe it, or himself.

Getting back to the house and getting warm took priority, Erik decided. Questions — and God knew he had a thousand of them — could wait till after.

By some miracle, they made it into the house without further incident. Slamming the door shut with his powers behind them, Erik set the boy down onto the couch and turned to strike a fire in the hearth. It would take a while for the rusty old furnace to drive out all the cold air that had been let in, and until then, the fireplace would do.

The boy’s eyes followed him as he tucked a fire starter under the half-burned log already in the hearth and touched a match to it. Once the block was burning steadily, he laid a fresh log over it and held out his hands to warm them for a minute. Alba came over, tail wagging, and he gave her a couple of absent pats before rising and turning his attention back on his guest. 

“So,” he said, then stopped, because where the fuck was he supposed to start?

The boy’s hands clenched around his sealskin cloak. His voice was calm, but his shoulders were hunched with tension. “What are you going to do with me?” 

“What do you think I’m going to do with you?”

The boy eyed him with so much apprehension that it was clear he expected Erik to say something along the lines of, “I’m going to cut your heart out and eat it with a spoon.” Erik was mystified by his fear — yes, he was well aware that he came off as cold and intimidating to most people, especially to strangers, but for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t _that_ bad. 

“I’m going to have a look at your leg to start with,” he said finally. “Hopefully you haven’t fucked it up even more with your little stunt just now. Which, speaking of — where did you think you were going?”

The boy’s mouth thinned. “To the sea.”

“And then what was the plan?”

“I was going to swim home,” the boy said stiffly.

“You were going to…” Jesus. Every time Erik thought the boy couldn’t possibly invent more nonsense, he found something even more absurd to say.

Before he could even begin to formulate a response to that, the boy gestured to his leg. “How long will it take to heal?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.” Still, Erik crouched and hiked up the pant leg. Besides the obvious deformity, the leg didn’t seem _that_ much worse. Who knew what kind of internal damage the boy had done dragging himself down to the coast though. The sooner he got medical attention, the better.

“Soon?” the boy pressed.

“A few weeks probably. Maybe longer. Like I said, I’m not a doctor.”

The boy blanched. “ _Weeks?”_

“Yeah.”

“But — I can’t stay here for _weeks_.”

Erik frowned. “You’re not going to be staying here. I’m getting on the radio and calling search and rescue, and you’re going to be airlifted to hospital.”

“Is it near to the sea?”

“What, the hospital? I don’t know. It depends on where they take you.”

“Then I’m not going.”

Erik stared at him. “What?”

The boy glowered. “I’m not going.”

For a moment, Erik gave very serious thought to knocking the boy unconscious, calling SAR, and letting _them_ sort this out once the boy was safely on his way to hospital, because clearly he was out of his mind.

But the instant the idea took shape in his head, the boy’s glower intensified. “If you try anything of the sort, I will put you to sleep again, and this time, I may not let you wake up.”

A chill raced down Erik’s spine. He’d heard enough threats in his life to know which ones were empty and which ones had substance. The boy meant every single word. 

Abruptly, Erik was struck by the certainty that something much bigger was at play. There was some missing piece that he was blind to, something that would make everything about this bizarre situation make _sense_. A strange calm cut through the storm of fear and anger that surged through him. Leaning back on his heels, he said evenly, “What’s really going on?” 

The boy shot him a wary look. “What do you mean?” 

“There’s a reason why you don’t want to go to hospital. There’s also a reason why you’re so desperate to get to the sea. Why?” 

In the long silence that followed, half a dozen theories flashed through Erik’s head. The boy was on the run. He’d escaped from an abusive household. He was a thief. He was a criminal. He was in witness protection. He was a spy. 

“I am one of the _dhaoine-uisce_ ,” the boy said at last, glaring at Erik as if he expected to be challenged. 

“One of the…” Erik couldn’t even guess at what language that had been. “…what?” 

“You would call us selkies.” 

“Selkies?” Erik had a very faint, scotch-soaked memory of Moira leaning heavily against him in a pub in Glasgow, utterly plastered, ranting about the way her mother used to frighten her away from ponds and lakes with stories about water horses and seal creatures snatching kids from shore and drowning them. “Christ, she scared the absolute shite out of me,” Moira had moaned into his shoulder. “I didn’t even learn to swim till I was fourteen.”

“Selkies,” Erik said slowly. “As in…seals. Seal people.” 

“We prefer to be called ‘people of the water,’ in your language,” the boy sniffed. 

His obsession with the sea. The way he had washed up on Erik’s shores out of nowhere when no ship had been on the docket to pass within twenty miles of Genosha. The genuine sealskin cloak. 

There was no fucking way. 

Erik barked a laugh. “What the fuck is this?” He half-expected a camera crew to leap out from the bedroom. 

“You don’t believe me,” the boy said calmly. 

“Of course I don’t believe you. It’s ridiculous. It’s — ” 

“Let me show you.” 

“Wha — ” 

The room warped and twisted around them, walls bending inward, the ceiling folding down into itself, the stone floor slanting away beneath his feet. Before Erik could do anything more than let out a cry of surprise, darkness swallowed his vision. 

*

Half an hour later, he was sat in the armchair by the hearth nursing a coffee and a throbbing headache. Neither he nor the boy had spoken since they’d resurfaced from the boy’s memories. The _selkie’s_ memories.

Fuck, Erik thought, hands pressed around the mug to keep himself steady. This wasn’t fucking real.

Except it was. Undeniably. He’d _seen_ into the selkie’s mind, shared his thoughts and his memories, and every one of them had been sharper and realer than some of Erik’s own recollections, blurred and dulled by time. Could a telepath do that? Fabricate memories, plant them in unsuspecting minds? Theoretically, an Omega-level telepath would be capable of such a thing, but psionics of that caliber were so rare as to be nearly hypothetical.

 _And selkies?_ prompted a cold, suspicious voice in the back of his head. _Weren’t they all but hypothetical as well thirty minutes ago?_

“I’m not lying to you,” the boy said, shattering the tense silence at last. “What would I have to gain?” When Erik continued to stare at him narrowly, the boy sighed and added, “If I were trying to deceive you, wouldn’t I have picked a more believable story?”

He had a point.

After he managed to herd his thoughts into some semblance of order, Erik pointed to his head and said, “First of all, don’t ever do that again.”

The boy nodded without protest. “I’ve noticed that your kind don’t generally like it when I do that.”

“You’ve met other people before? Other humans?” Apparently Erik’s capacity for shock had been tapped — the questions came out more numb than surprised.

“Of course. How else do you think I learned your language?”

“I…honestly I hadn’t thought about it.” Erik sipped his coffee. The bitter heat of it calmed the lingering tumult of confusion, wariness, and disbelief that clouded his thoughts. Once he’d drained half his mug, he felt more or less clearheaded again, and ready for more answers.

The boy hadn’t touched his own coffee. Did selkies even drink coffee? Erik had offered the cup in the same way the British offered tea when they had no idea what else to say or do and needed to make a brief escape to the kitchen. The boy had accepted in a manner that suggested he had very little idea of what coffee even was.

“You have questions,” the boy said eventually.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Ask them.”

Erik took another swallow of coffee. “Alright. What’s your name?”

“Anything but that,” the boy bit out, eyes flashing.

“You told me what you are. You showed me your memories. You let me in your head. But your _name_ is where you draw the line?”

“You haven’t told me yours,” the boy pointed out, his tone accusing.

“Erik.”

That rocked the boy back for a moment. Clearly he hadn’t expected Erik to reply so readily. “You’re a fool,” he muttered into the fur ruff of Erik’s winter coat, which was still draped over his shoulders. Then, before Erik could retort, he said, “You can call me Charles.”

“Charles?” Erik echoed in surprise. The name was so…normal.

“It was what a friend used to call me a very long time ago.”

“A human friend?”

“Yes.”

“If you have human friends, then why were you so afraid of me?”

Charles glared. “I wasn’t afraid of you.”

Erik allowed his skeptical silence to speak for itself.

Flushing, Charles glanced away and growled, “I never — I’ve never done this.”

“This?”

“I’ve never been so far from the water.”

Erik’s eyes dropped to where Charles’s hands were restlessly stroking the seal pelt in his lap. He groped through his blurry memories of that night at the pub, of Moira’s voice regaling him with the story about the selkie and the…what had it been? The fisherman? The farmer? That part didn’t matter. The sealskin — _that_ had been the crux of the story. 

“So you…change when you shed your sealskin,” Erik said slowly. “You turn into…” He gestured. 

Charles’s shoulders hunched. “Yes,” he said to his knees, hands clasped on the pelt.

Given his reaction to Erik and his apparent ignorance of the fact that a broken leg generally didn’t like to be walked on, Erik wagered that Charles didn’t often inhabit his human form. That explained why he moved with some awkwardness, like a gangly calf learning how to operate an entirely new body, constantly surprised by his own limbs.

“When I woke up,” Charles said, hushed. “When I realized I didn’t have it with me…we’ve never been separated before.”

“Never?”

“I used to take it off to come to land, but I always kept it near.” His fingers tightened around the pelt possessively. “Never further than an arm’s length.”

“You can’t go back to the sea without it, can you?” Then, because the question had been mostly rhetorical, Erik added, “You were afraid I’d take it and imprison you here.”

“You have your stories. We have ours.”

How odd it was to think that the selkies told cautionary tales about humankind. Did selkie mothers warn their children about venturing too close to shore by impressing them with stories about evil fishermen who lurked by the coast looking for young, innocent seals to snatch up?

“So.” Erik leaned back in his seat. “You thought I was going to trap you.”

“I thought the idea might cross your mind.” 

“But you could stop if I tried. You knocked me out without any trouble.” Erik startled as a thought occurred to him. “Wait — there are mutant selkies?”

Charles blinked at him in confusion for a moment before he seemed to realize what Erik was asking. “You refer to my powers? Those are inherent to all those who carry fae blood.”

“Fae blood.”

“Yes. As you do.”

“As I…” Erik shook his head. “My abilities aren’t magic. They’re genetic. A product of evolution.”

“Evolution!” For the first time since they’d met, all traces of fear and wariness fell away from Charles’s face. His expression was one of utter delight. “You know about evolution?”

Caught off-guard by his sudden enthusiasm, Erik found himself stammering. “Well — I mean, I took a couple of classes in uni and — it’s common knowledge that mutants are the next step in the evolution of the human race — ”

“Mutants,” Charles said, half to himself. “Mutations. Of course. Of course you would invent a scientific theory for what you don’t understand.”

“It’s not a theory,” Erik said, unaccountably annoyed. “Mutants possess an X-gene that, when expressed, manifests as various mutant abilities. That’s been scientifically proven for decades.”

“An X-gene?” Charles paused for a second before his eyes brightened. “You mentioned genetics earlier. Gregor Mendel, have you heard of him?”

“ _You_ have?”

“Of course I have! He’s brilliant. I’ve read summaries of his work.”

Evidently Erik _hadn’t_ exhausted his ability to be surprised. “You can read?”

“Yes,” Charles said impatiently, as if this wasn’t a revelation worthy of an entire conversation on its own. “A long time ago, a very kind boy spent a summer teaching me. He brought me a great many books, and I liked the scientific treatises best.”

Somehow, out of every shock he’d been dealt today, this was the most astonishing: the selkie had a personality. The selkie enjoyed _scientific treatises_.

Unable to sit still any longer, Erik got up. “More coffee?” he said automatically, then looked down at Charles’s full cup and grimaced.

Charles eyed the mug. “It was hot.”

“Yeah. Coffee generally is.” After a moment of thought, Erik realized hot beverages were probably foreign to Charles. Selkies hardly had underwater Keurigs, did they?

Did they?

“You know about Gregor Mendel but you’ve never had coffee?” Erik asked.

“I haven’t spent very long among your kind,” Charles replied a bit defensively.

“You just said you spent a whole summer — ”

“Only for a few hours a day at most. We never left the beach. I never allowed it. And…”

“And?”

Charles shook his head. Whatever he’d been about to say was buried; instead, he said, “It wasn’t as if he brought me coffee.”

Erik sensed that they had merely grazed the very tip of the iceberg of that story. But he had more than enough information to process at the moment — or to attempt to process anyway — so he simply nodded at Charles’s untouched mug, said, “Try it,” and went to the kitchen to pour himself another cup.

*

Despite the monumental asteroid that had crashed into his life, Erik still had a number of tasks that couldn’t wait on him to feel steadier on his feet. Once he’d finished his second cup of coffee, he left Charles resting by the fire and went out, Alba trotting with him as always.

He’d already lost about three hours of the day, so he mentally crossed off whatever chores could wait until tomorrow and focused on the ones that required his immediate attention. Airing out the lighthouse and performing a cursory examination for mold took up half an hour. Then he walked a few meters up the slope to the generator shed, which hummed in greeting as he stepped in.

Since the day he’d set foot on Genosha, this had been one of his favorite places on the island. He loved Genosha for its isolation, for the quiet, for the utter lack of human company besides the occasional crackling of a voice on the radio. But what he missed about the outside world — what he missed about Munich or London or New York — was the constant, inescapable thrum of life. Not human life but the life that only he could sense: cars, trains, pipes, machinery, the humming brightness of skyscrapers towering hundreds of feet above them. The lullaby of that private song, intended only for his ears, had lulled him to sleep ever since he’d turned eight and realized all the spoons in the kitchen twitched when he was upset, or excited.

He hadn’t been able to sleep for nearly four days when he’d first arrived here. Once the helicopter had dropped him off and disappeared back into the far horizon, the absolute silence had been dizzying. Erik had expected the lack of sound — Penelope and her wife, the previous occupants of the lighthouse, had warned him that the island might seem eerie at first, with nothing but the occasional gust of wind and the rhythmic thumping of the sea against the cliff to keep him company. But of course they hadn’t known to warn him about the lack of metal, alive or dead. He hadn’t known he’d miss it until it was gone.

The situation had become untenable on the fourth day. He couldn’t carry out his duties sleep-deprived. More than that, it was dangerous: one morning he was going to walk over to the lighthouse in an exhausted stupor and topple right over the plunging cliffside to his death. So that night, he’d gathered his coat, blankets, and pillow, gone up to the generator shed, and made himself a bed there beside the rumbling engines.

He’d slept better that night than he had in years.

These days he slept at the house. He’d gradually trained himself to be comfortable with the silence, though some part of him would always miss the churning restlessness of the city. Still, he maintained a fondness for the old generators, and trips to the shed always calmed him.

The gen shed contained three ancient Lister Diesel generators, the newer diesel generator that ran with much less clunking and groaning, a cluster of diesel tanks, and the battery bank. As he entered, Alba lingered near the doorway for a moment before turning and wandering out of sight. She didn’t like the narrow, cramped space of the shed and preferred to explore on her own while Erik logged generator hours and kilowatt usage, checked the fuel stores in the tanks, measured the battery, and ran his powers over each piece of equipment, searching for anything out of place.

Once he was satisfied everything was running properly, Erik gave the nearest generator a fond pat and shut the door securely behind him as he left.

Mucking out the drains, he decided, could wait until tomorrow. Not because he was reluctant to do the work — in fact, clearing out the drains was one of his favorite chores because it always left him sweating, sore, and too exhausted to think — but because his thoughts kept turning back to the selkie — the _selkie!_ — he’d left lying on his couch. Ever since he’d stepped out of the house, he’d been itching with the urge to run back and see if it had all been some kind of hallucinatory fever dream. He was half-sure that by the time he returned, the couch would be empty, his winter coat would be hung up neatly in the closet, and all traces of the boy would be gone.

But when he opened the door, Charles startled up from the couch, eyes wide, and they stared at each other for a frozen moment.

“You’re still here,” Erik said finally.

“You made it quite clear that I shouldn’t try to walk.”

Charles was real. _Selkies_ were real. Fuck. It was going to take some time for Erik to wrap his head around the idea.

Tugging off his gloves, he cast around for a safe, normal topic of conversation and landed on: “How were the painkillers?”

“They worked a little, I think.”

“I think it’s about time you can have more, if you want.”

Charles must have been in real pain: he hesitated only a second this time before he nodded, mouth pressed into a tight line.

Erik went to fetch the bottle of Tylenol from the bathroom. Before he’d left earlier, he’d helped Charles lie back on the couch and prop his leg up on a couple of pillows. Even that slight movement had left Charles panting and gasping, eyes glazed with pain. Once he’d gotten more or less settled, Erik had rummaged through his stock of medications and come up with a paltry offering of Tylenol, ibuprofen, and aspirin. Clearly the previous lighthouse keepers hadn’t foreseen the need to treat broken legs onsite, and neither had Erik; he never gave any thought to medical supplies when he filled out his monthly supply list and sent it to the mainland for review.

When he’d returned with a glass of water and a couple of pills, Charles had given him such a dark look of suspicion that Erik had stopped dead in his tracks.

“It’s medicine,” Erik had said. “It’ll help with the pain.” At least he hoped it would — he was fairly certain Penelope had used the Tylenol for headaches, and broken legs were another level of pain altogether. But he had nothing else to offer.

“We have many stories about humankind,” Charles had replied, glowering at the pills in Erik’s hand as if they were a pair of twined snakes, capable of striking at him at any moment. “Do you know what each of them has in common?” When Erik had shaken his head, Charles had said, “Every one of them warns against accepting food or drink from human hands. They say we may never leave if we do.”

Erik couldn’t help but snort at that. “We have stories that say the same thing about faeries.”

Charles had blinked. “You do?”

“We do,” Erik had said in mild amusement. He’d set the pills and glass of water down on the coffee table and stepped back. “Look, I’m not going to force these down your throat. If you want to take them, you can. And if you think I’m trying to poison you or something — ” he tapped his temple “ — can’t you just tell?”

“I thought…You told me not to go into your head again.”

“I’m giving you permission this time.”

Charles hadn’t replied and Erik hadn’t felt any hint of a mental intrusion, but after he’d washed their mugs and then gotten his coat on to head back outside, he’d noticed the pills were gone.

Now Charles took the Tylenol without protest, having apparently decided that Erik wasn’t going to try to murder him. Erik started to say, “I’ll get you some more water,” but before he could, Charles delicately licked the pills out of his palm and crunched down on them, his expression twisting in disgust as he chewed. After swallowing emphatically, he pronounced, “They taste awful.”

“You’re supposed to swallow them whole,” Erik said, trying to decide if he wanted to laugh.

“Oh! Like fish.”

“Right.” Erik had no idea how seals ate, but he nodded anyway. “Like fish.”

Alba came nosing over curiously and instead of catching her collar again like he’d done before, Erik allowed her to approach. Charles eyed her apprehensively but held still as she sniffed at his hands.

“She won’t hurt you,” Erik told him. “You can pet her if you’d like.”

“Pet her?”

“Like this.” Erik leaned down to scratch her favorite spot behind her ear.

Hesitantly, Charles followed in suit. When nothing more exciting than Alba grinning and wagging her tail with furious abandon occurred, he smiled in wonder and touched her more confidently. “She’s soft.”

“You’ve really never seen a dog?” 

“I’ve seen them from afar but never this close, and I’ve never touched one before.” He tangled his fingers in Alba’s fur with a look of pure delight. “This is _wonderful_.”

Erik felt an odd warmth wash over him, as if he’d stepped into an unexpected beam of sunlight. Clearing his throat, he picked up the glass on the coffee table and went to refill it to give his hands something to do. As he did, he said, “We need to think up a story for you. Something believable.”

“A story?”

“For when SAR comes to pick you up.” At Charles’s quizzical glance, Erik clarified, “Search and rescue.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Charles said slowly.

“You have to get your leg looked at. I can’t do anything for you here. I’m not a doctor. I don’t know the first thing about fixing broken legs.”

Charles’s expression hardened. “I’m staying here until I’m better. Then I’m going home.”

“And what happens if your leg gets infected?” He could tell in an instant that Charles didn’t have a clue what that meant. He tried again: “What happens if it doesn’t heal properly?”

Now a bit of uncertainty edged into Charles’s face. “It might not heal properly?”

“That’s what they do in hospitals. They make sure your leg’s set so it’ll heal straight, and they get you rehab to make sure you’re strong enough to walk again. I don’t have any of that here. Your leg might get better. It might not. It’s not worth the risk.”

Charles was silent. Not wanting to push, Erik refilled his glass and Alba’s water bowl and then studied the fridge for ideas for lunch. This close to the end of the month, the shelves were nearly empty. The ship that brought him supplies once every four weeks was due on Tuesday with a fresh load of groceries, seeds, mail, and anything else he’d asked for. There was still time to amend the list — should he try to get his hands on a stronger painkiller? And maybe something for the leg, a splint of some kind, and crutches…

No. He shook the idea from his head. Charles wasn’t staying. They were going to figure out a cover story and Charles was going to hospital and then…

Doubt began to creep in. Charles had no ID. No matter what story they spun, he wouldn’t show up on any database. The police would scour missing persons and find nothing. They might go to the media and Charles’s face would be splashed across hundreds, probably thousands, of screens, and Erik couldn’t imagine Charles putting up with that. How the hell was he going to navigate the NHS and the police by himself when he hadn’t even known what a dog was a day ago? And what if the doctors examined him and found something peculiar, something decidedly non-human? They’d chalk it up to a mutation most likely, but what if they didn’t? And God only knew what Charles would do if they tried poking and prodding him.

Sending him to hospital was a bad idea. Erik couldn’t decide if keeping him here was a worse one.

He made himself a sandwich and, after a beat of hesitation, put together a second one as well. Alba whined until he slipped her a sliver of turkey and rolled his eyes when she whined again. Taking up the water glass in one hand, he floated both plates over to the living room.

Charles received his with wide-eyed awe. “You’re a…I don’t know the word for it in your language.”

“Magnokinetic. I can manipulate magnetic fields.” Erik paused. “Do you have any idea what magnets are?”

“No. What are they?”

“They’re…” Erik considered the monumental task of teaching Charles basic sciences and decided it could wait till after lunch. “Eat. Then we need to talk about what we’re going to do about you.”

After observing Erik take a bite of his sandwich, Charles gingerly plucked at his own. Either he’d decided human food and drink were no longer suspicious, or he trusted Erik, or he was simply too hungry to be recalcitrant — whatever the case, he took a gentle nibble and nearly dropped the plate, eyes flying to Erik in surprise.

“What?” Erik wondered with a jolt of alarm if selkies could be allergic to turkey.

“This is…it’s incredible!”

Relaxing slightly, Erik huffed. “It’s just a turkey sandwich.”

“It’s _delicious!_ ” Charles stared down at the sandwich as if he were taking in the eighth wonder of the world. Then he attacked it at such speed that Erik winced.

“Chew,” he said. When Charles spared him a glance, Erik held up his own sandwich with two bites in it. “Slow down. If you eat too fast, you’ll choke.”

Charles tried to say something around an enormous mouthful and almost immediately started to cough. Exasperated, Erik dropped down onto the couch beside him and pounded his back until he spat up half-chewed bread and turkey onto his plate and gasped in one good breath, then another.

Eyes watering, Charles said weakly, “Choke?”

“Try not to do that again,” Erik advised. When Charles nodded obediently and started to go for the soggy mess on his plate, Erik whisked it out of his hands with a jerk of his powers and stood. “ _Don’t_ eat that. I’ll make you another one.”

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s disgusting.”

“Why?”

“Because — ” Erik frowned at him, fighting the urge to ask if seals regularly consumed food they’d just vomited up. Alba did when he didn’t stop her in time, but he didn’t think comparing Charles to his dog would go over well.

“Because you’re in human form right now,” he settled on finally, “and humans don’t eat things they’ve spit out.”

He left Charles to absorb that and went over to the kitchen to assemble another sandwich. The bread was nearly out — he’d have to bake another loaf tonight or tomorrow. With a sigh, he mentally added it to the list of tasks he was rapidly falling behind on. The sooner he figured out what the hell he was going to do with the selkie in his living room, the better.

After a moment of deliberation, he cut the new sandwich into squares, just like his mother used to do when he’d been a kid. At the memory of her standing in the kitchen, humming softly as she piled chips to the side of his sandwich, sorrow welled up in him, sharp and swift. It amazed him sometimes how the thought of her could still cut like a knife all these years later. 

Folding the memory away, he picked up the plate and carried it over to a nearly-salivating Charles. “Chew.”

For a wonder, Charles’s cheeks pinked slightly. This time he ate slowly and deliberately, though he still made no attempt to hide his excitement at every bite. Erik watched him with gentle amusement. If a turkey sandwich was enough to send him into raptures, Erik wasn’t sure he’d survive any further culinary adventures.

“Is there any more?” Charles asked after he’d fastidiously licked his fingers and the plate.

For a moment, Erik considered explaining to him that supplies on the island were limited, that Erik would be making something more substantial for dinner, that they might have to start rationing to feed two if Charles intended on staying more than a couple of days. Then, deciding the ensuing conversation would end up being more effort than it was worth, he got up and made yet another sandwich.

Once Charles had washed down the last crumbs with a full glass of water, Erik sat in the armchair across from him and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We need to talk about what we’re going to do. What _you’re_ going to do.”

Charles sat back, his expression pinched. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Your leg — ”

“Even _you_ don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go to this hospital of yours.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed. “You read my mind.”

“It’s hard not to when you think so loudly,” Charles sniffed. When Erik glowered at him, he at least had the good grace to look contrite. “I will try not to do it again.”

Unsure if he was convinced, Erik growled, “Stay out of my head.” He waited until Charles nodded his acquiescence before continuing. “As far as you going to the mainland, I will admit that it raises a whole host of other problems. It’ll be…complicated, to say the least.”

“Then I’ll stay here.”

“You’re willing to risk your leg?”

“What other choice is there?”

“What happens if it doesn’t heal properly? What if you can’t ever swim again?”

That shut Charles up. Uncertainty crept into his expression, made him look even younger. After a few moments, he asked, his tone more subdued, “Do you think that will happen?”

For a split second, Erik considered playing up the danger. He could overstate his own expertise in the situation, scare Charles into leaving. Once Charles got out of his hair, Erik could return to his normal routine; the solitude he prized so highly would be reinstated, and he would go about his quiet life here as he had done for the last three years, alone.

Almost immediately, he felt a rush of shame at the thought. What would his mother have said if she’d seen him prioritizing his own comfort over someone else’s wellbeing?

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “You have a better guarantee of getting that leg fixed if you go to hospital where the experts are, but they’ll raise a lot of questions. You’re going to be under a lot of scrutiny.”

“They’ll want to know who I am.”

“Yes.”

“And _what_ I am.”

“If they figure out you’re not human, yes. And if they realize you’re not human…” Erik grimaced, decided this wasn’t the time to introduce Charles to the whole sordid history of government-sanctioned kidnapping and experimentation on mutants in the 1960s, and said simply, “That won’t be good for you.”

Charles sat back, clearly troubled.

After a moment, Erik added, “But it might not come to that. They might write you off as a mystery and let you off without any kind of investigation.”

“But there’s a possibility they might not.”

“Yes.”

“Is it difficult to leave a hospital?”

“You can’t just walk out when you please.” Erik paused, then amended, “Maybe _you_ could. You could make them let you leave if you wanted, couldn’t you? With your telepathy?”

“I could,” Charles said, though he sounded doubtful. “Would there be many people there?”

“Probably.” Even a small local hospital had to have dozens of staff. If they decided to ship Charles off to Aberdeen or Edinburgh…well that would be another beast of a problem altogether.

“I haven’t had much practice with more than one or two people,” Charles admitted, running his fingers across the sealskin in his lap. Erik was starting to recognize that as a nervous habit, like a child might cling to a favorite blanket to self-soothe. “I think I could do it but…”

But it was still another risk piled onto all the others, wasn’t it? And even if Charles escaped from the hospital without any issue, what then? How was he going to navigate a city? If he was overwhelmed by a sandwich, he’d be absolutely floored by a train.

“I shouldn’t go, should I?” Charles said softly.

Erik had no idea how he had talked _himself_ into the same conclusion. Resigned to the fact that he was surrendering all concept of ‘normal’ for at least the next few weeks, he sighed and said, “It would be easier if you stayed here. Safer, too.” 

Charles nodded. “Then I’m staying.”

Erik could feel a headache threatening on the horizon. “I suppose you are.”

*

They began the strange and awkward process of acclimating to each other’s company.

Erik gave Charles the bed and took to sleeping on the couch with Alba, partly because he figured Charles would heal more quickly if he were more comfortable, and partly because he hadn’t wanted to wake Charles up every morning walking through the living room on his way out the door. He needn’t have worried though — Charles slept like the dead, and no amount of alarms going off, Alba scrabbling around and whuffing, or Erik moving around the cabin could rouse him before 0800. By the time he eventually stirred, Erik had already made the trip to the weather station, downed a cup of coffee and a bowl of oats, fed Alba, and completed one or two household chores for the day. Normally he’d be washing dishes or reading the news when Charles would give a tentative tap at Erik’s mental shields and, when Erik gave his silent assent, said, _Good morning_.

There were things Charles did that were startlingly human when Erik paused to think about them. He said ‘good morning.’ He had a general idea of normal waking hours. He spoke English so impeccably that Erik would have assumed he’d grown up in Oxford if he hadn’t known any better. He often gave off the impression of a human being with slight amnesia who couldn’t quite remember simple things. Just by observing him, no one could guess that he lived most of his life in the ocean as a _seal_ , of all things. 

And yet there were other parts of his behavior that came off as decidedly alien. He had no idea how to hold silverware. He had to learn that normal humans ate three times a day, not whenever they felt like it. He had very little concept of clothes and how to dress himself — Erik had to emphasize that a shirt _and_ pants were necessary, for modesty if not for warmth, which had led to a lengthy discussion on what modesty was and why Charles should care about it. Erik was of the opinion that people could dress however they pleased, society be damned, but he also preferred not to walk in on Charles stark naked in the bedroom. 

Charles was also fascinated by the most mundane things: the heater, the Keurig, the potted plants on the windowsill, the rugs, every little thing Alba did, and, of course, every meal Erik presented to him. He approached every dish as if they’d come straight off the menu of a Michelin three-star restaurant. Erik considered himself a decent cook, especially with what limited ingredients they had on the island, but the way Charles raved about his food, one would think Erik had trained at some prestigious culinary institute. It was, Erik had to admit, somewhat gratifying to be so thoroughly appreciated, even if it was only because Charles didn’t know any better.

But the one thing in the house that Charles promptly became obsessed with, that he spent hours and hours of the day poring over, was Erik’s laptop. Erik had offered it to him to relieve his boredom after Charles had asked for the third time if Erik had any books, and Erik had informed him for the third time that he didn’t. But he could find something to read on here, Erik had said, showing him the computer, and Charles had stared at the screen with such wonder and excitement that Erik had realized instantly he’d created a monster.

He’d expected to have to spend longer explaining to Charles how to navigate through windows, how to use the keys, how to search for books and news to read. But he’d only shown Charles the basics and left him to explore as he went out to tend to the garden, and by the time he’d returned two hours later, Charles had looked up at him in amazement and asked, “Did you know reindeer eyes turn blue in the winter so they can see at lower light levels?”

Erik had stopped in the doorway for a moment, baffled. Then he’d huffed and said, “Fell down a Wikipedia rabbit hole, did you?”

“What’s Wikipedia?”

He’d spent the rest of the day glued to the laptop and had only surrendered it reluctantly when Erik had told him firmly to go to bed.

“But — ”

“But nothing,” Erik had said sternly. “If you don’t get enough rest, your body won’t have the energy to heal your leg, and you don’t want that, do you?”

Charles had sulked off to bed, leaving Erik to wonder why Charles pouting amused him so greatly.

Thankfully there had still been time to modify his supplies list for the month, so Erik had piled on as much as he could think of: double the grocery items he normally asked for, extra coffee, two big bottles of extra-strength Tylenol, bandage wraps, medical tape. As an afterthought, he added a request for any magazines or dime novels available. Sure, his purchases this month would probably raise a few eyebrows, but he doubted anyone cared enough to question him, least of all whoever was assigned to shop for him. If anyone _did_ ask, he owed them no explanation: it was his money after all, and no one had the right to pry.

When the ship arrived on Tuesday as scheduled, the captain had barely given Erik a second look as he’d unloaded twice the number of bags as usual. Over the last three years, he and Erik had built up enough familiarity to exchange a few pleasantries, but their relationship was shallow. Paul was taciturn and never much for small talk, and that suited Erik just fine. They said their hellos, discussed a few weather concerns on Paul’s route, and then bade each other goodbye until next month.

There was a small annex attached to the back of the house that had served various purposes throughout the years depending on the owner: a crafts room, an office, a reading nook. After the first couple of weeks here, Erik had designated it his workshop. It was where he kept spare parts, metal pieces, bits and bobs that he saved for fiddling with later. He’d formed a habit of sitting in there every evening for an hour or so, tinkering with little projects here and there.

From his workshop, he’d taken a couple of slim metal rods and, with the bandage wraps and ample advice from Google, fashioned a splint for Charles’s leg. Charles had endured Erik’s manipulation of his leg with teeth clenched, eyes squeezed shut, face reddening from the effort of holding in yells. Despite himself, Erik was admittedly impressed; he was fairly certain most people would be screaming their heads off as someone pressed their broken leg back into line.

Afterwards, Erik scrounged up some chamomile tea from the back of the pantry (courtesy of Moira, who had bought the tin for him when he’d first moved here with the reasoning that he’d need _something_ to keep his blood pressure level if she wasn’t there to listen to him rant about the general state of the world) and made a cup. Charles received it cautiously — he was still wary of hot drinks after he’d tasted coffee and spent nearly a minute choking at the heat and bitterness — and then nearly swooned when he finally took a sip.

“Erik,” he gasped, staring down at the cup in amazement, “this is _marvelous_.”

“You can add milk and sugar,” Erik said, floating a tray carrying both over to the couch within Charles’s reach. Charles did so at Erik’s direction and promptly decided that tea was the best thing humans had ever invented, besides the internet.

They settled into a routine with strange ease. After three years spent in utter isolation, Erik expected to find Charles’s company grating, but instead, it felt oddly natural. In the morning, Erik would head out for the necessary early tasks. When he returned, he would make a pot of coffee, feed Alba, and have breakfast, and about an hour later, he’d make a cup of tea, anticipating Charles’s careful, _Good morning._ Then he’d help Charles out of bed and to the bathroom, then to the living room where he’d be settled on the couch for most of the day, either scrolling on Erik’s laptop or reading one of the books Erik had gotten him (“They’re not much,” Erik had told him when he’d unpacked them from the bags, “just beach reads,” but Charles had clutched them to his chest like they were gold).

Erik had improvised a pair of crutches with the scrap metal he had lying around, and every couple of hours, Erik had him get up off the couch and practice a few wobbling steps back and forth across the living room. At first Charles had moaned and groaned about it, but when Erik had told him sternly that exercise was important in preventing blood clots from killing him and effectively ending any dream he had of returning to the sea, Charles had become much more cooperative.

Erik spent most of the day outside carrying out various errands across the island: performing routine maintenance where needed, trimming the trails, raking the drains, fixing the solar panels, scrubbing every inch of the lighthouse and its outlying buildings with clove oil to kill mold, weeding the garden. Each day was a variation on a theme, as familiar to Erik now as his own heartbeat. The work on the island was never-ending, which was comforting in a way, knowing he was always needed.

Once dusk fell, he made his way back home, took a shower, and made dinner. Charles normally peppered the meal with trivia he’d learned that day from the internet, or his thoughts about the book he was reading, and Erik soon grew used to the pleasant timbre of Charles’s voice lulling him into sleepy relaxation.

It was all terribly domestic when Erik allowed himself to think about it. He neatly sidestepped any discomfort at the idea by not thinking about it.

Once afternoon, since the weather was pleasant, Erik made a detour back to the house in between errands, glanced over to where Charles was frowning down at his book, and asked, “Do you want to sit outside?”

It took a moment for Charles to surface from his novel. “Hmm? Outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Erik huffed. “Because you’ve been inside for almost a week straight and it might be nice to get some fresh air?”

Charles considered this for a moment before nodding. “Alright.” Then he added slyly, "Will you carry me?”

“Absolutely not. Get your crutches.”

With much complaining, Charles wrapped his sealskin around his shoulders and hobbled to his feet. As he made his way slowly to the door, Erik hovered close behind him, shooing Alba away from Charles’s legs so she wouldn’t trip him up. Outside, Erik guided Charles over to the small garden that abutted the eastern face of the house, where he’d set out a folding chair for Charles to rest on.

“What is this?” Charles asked once he’d sat down and caught his breath. He inspected the fenced plot of land with avid curiosity. 

“It’s the garden.”

“Garden? But…where are the flowers?”

“It’s a vegetable garden. You know, for potatoes and carrots and the like.”

“But…” Charles peered deeply into the ground as if he expected a potato to claw its way from the earth and leap out at him. “There’s none of that either.”

“Because it’s still winter,” Erik explained with amused patience. “There won’t be anything growing until spring.”

“Oh! Of course.”

“I can get you your book if you want. I’m just going to be weeding. It’ll probably be boring.”

After a moment’s thought, Charles shook his head. “That’s alright. Can I help?”

“Don’t trouble yourself. There’s barely enough room for one person to work, let alone two.”

Charles’s eyes followed him as he got to work digging the spade into the hard, cold soil, prying up one stubborn bunch of weeds after another, and tossing them into a pile in the corner. Erik had never been one for self-consciousness, but something about Charles’s bold, direct observation made his neck prickle. Why had he put the chair right next to the garden? Why hadn’t he left Charles further up the slope where the view was better, or by the front door where the house didn’t block the sea breeze? But when he’d fetched the chair from the workshop, he’d placed it within arm’s reach of the garden without thinking, making sure Charles stayed close.

Only in case Charles needed help, he told himself. This was his first time outside since he’d tried running into the ocean. The last thing either of them needed was for Charles to wander around with all the grace of a newborn foal and topple right off a cliff.

“Can I ask you something?” Charles said after a while.

Erik glanced over at him for a second, then shrugged and turned back to weeding. It was only after Charles continued to stare at him expectantly that Erik realized Charles was waiting for a verbal cue. “Oh. Sure.”

“I’ve seen lighthouses before. Never up close, of course, but I’ve seen enough of them to know they’re rather…quiet. Not very many people live in lighthouses, or near them.”

“Is that a question?”

“Humans are social creatures, are they not? Don’t you get lonely?” 

Erik was glad for the work: it meant he could focus on the dirt beneath his hands instead of on Charles’s questioning gaze. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Some people like being alone.”

“Oh.” Charles cocked his head. “Then why are you sad?”

Erik froze. “What?”

“Your mind — it feels sad most of the time. Not always, and I don’t think you realize it yourself, but I can feel it.”

Over the last week, Charles had been solicitous with his telepathy — he only rarely used it around Erik, always asked for permission first, and kept each encounter brief and gentle. Erik had had a telepathic enemy-turned-friend in uni, and he’d learned from her what it felt like when a telepath was being careful with your thoughts. Charles was always careful with his thoughts.

So to hear Charles comment on his mood now, without ever having asked permission, was something of a shock. That surprise morphed rapidly into anger. “You’re reading my mind?”

“I — no, not precisely.”

“Not _precisely?”_ Erik whirled to glower at him. “What does that mean?”

“I…I have trouble staying out entirely,” Charles stammered, hands tightening around the edges of his sealskin. “To fully shield my mind at all times would be exhausting. I don’t hear your thoughts unless I make an effort, but I can’t help but feel the surface of your mind. It’s like sight — you can ask me not to look at you but I’m aware of you near me, and I can sense what you’re doing.”

Erik knew this. Emma had explained to him before that most powerful psionics were naturally receptive, meaning they passively absorbed thoughts and emotions from those around them. It took an effort to turn their telepathy off, not on. And yet he couldn’t shake the instinctive stab of fear at the thought of Charles ghosting through his mind.

He forced himself to take a slow, deep breath before answering. “I don’t want you reading my mind.”

Charles winced. “I know. You’re afraid.”

“Not of what you are,” Erik said firmly. He had to make Charles understand this because he’d be a hypocrite of the highest order if he didn’t. “Not because you’re a telepath. You were born with that gift, and there’s nothing wrong with using it. It’s just — my head’s an ugly place. I have things in there I’d rather not share. So I don’t want you to make yourself…uncomfortable for my sake, but there are some things I don’t want you seeing. A lot of things, honestly.”

Charles searched his face for a long moment before his expression softened and his hands released their strangling grip on the sealskin. “I understand. I don’t read your thoughts without permission. Even when we speak like this — ” he tapped his temple “ — I never go deeply enough to see memories. I promise your mind is safe from me.” 

Erik had never met anyone so capable of infusing their every word with such solemn sincerity. He had never been the kind of man to trust easily — one of his many faults, and something his mother used to tease him about — but something about Charles’s manner made it impossible not to trust him. Was it a byproduct of his telepathy? Erik wondered. Or simply a natural talent?

“Good,” Erik muttered, and turned back to weeding. After a few minutes of silence, he felt compelled to add, “I’m not sad.”

“Of course not,” Charles said agreeably, in a way that made it clear that he didn’t believe it for a second.

“I like it here.”

“Yes, you do.”

“It’s quiet. I don’t have to deal with anyone else’s bullshit.”

“Only your own,” Charles teased.

Erik stared at him. Charles stared back, clearly surprised by his own audacity. 

Then Erik found himself laughing. “Where did you learn how to joke?”

Charles laughed, too, bright and relieved. “I’ve spent more time among humans than you probably think I have.”

“Your friend?”

“Yes. Not just him, though our friendship lasted the longest. I’ve met several humans throughout the years.”

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, he had only come here for the summer. His family rented a house on the beach, and after we met, he came to see me every day until he had to go home. He was from London.” Charles glanced down, the slant of his mouth wistful. “He came back twice more, once a year later, and then again after he was married. The second time was to say goodbye.”

“You never saw him again?”

“No.” Charles met Erik’s eyes with half a smile. “I understood. He had a family by then. I was a distraction.”

Erik wasn’t an optimist by any means, but the quiet sorrow in Charles’s voice made Erik want to offer him something, anything. “Maybe he’ll come back someday.”

“No, I don’t think he will.” Charles’s smile sharpened with amusement. “He’s quite dead now, I’m sure.”

“ _Dead?”_

“Oh yes. He’d be over a hundred years old if he were still alive today.”

Now Erik had to stop and stare at him. “A hundred years old.”

“Yes.”

The look he gave Erik was so knowing that Erik knew he didn’t have to ask. Still, he asked anyway: “How old are you?”

“I’m not sure. We have no concept of time as you do. But I met Richard in 1913. That was the first time I ever came to shore.”

 _Nineteen-thirteen._ Part of Erik reeled from the revelation. Another part of him received it calmly, with all the aplomb of a schoolteacher who has seen everything humanity has to offer. Charles was a creature from a storybook. Of course he could live over a hundred years. If it was possible for him to be a selkie, then it was possible for him to have met a man in 1913 and be telling Erik about it now in the twenty-first century.

“So you don’t age?” Erik asked, pleased when his voice came out steady and casual. 

“We don’t live forever, if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you young for a selkie?”

Charles smiled. “Because I look young for a human?”

“You don’t look a day over twenty-two, if that.”

“We age slowly. I suppose my human form does the same.”

“Right. Of course.” Erik wondered if he should be concerned by how willing he was to accept one bizarre answer after another. But all concept of normal had been neatly turned on its head the moment Erik had accepted that Charles was a selkie, hadn’t it? He’d stepped into a new reality in which mythical creatures existed, and there was no going back from it.

“You said you’ve had several human friends,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You, what, swam up to them and said hello?”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Charles said ruefully. “Most of them had no idea what I was. They thought I was ignorant because I was a tourist, or because I was sheltered. I let them believe what they wanted.”

“But Richard knew.”

“Yes. A few others, too.”

“I find it hard to believe that the secret never came out.” When Charles raised an eyebrow questioningly — had he picked that up from Erik? Erik had only noticed him doing it recently, over the last couple of days — Erik said, “People talk, even if they swear not to. You’re a _selkie_. Surely they wouldn’t have been able to keep that to themselves.”

“And who would have believed them? You didn’t until I showed you the truth.”

“Still. If there are selkies out there swimming around befriending humans, then there’s bound to be — ”

“There aren’t.”

“What?”

Charles ducked his head. For the first time since they’d met, he seemed…embarrassed. “There aren’t other selkies befriending humans. Only me.” Erik arched an eyebrow. Charles sighed and explained, “It’s quite forbidden to speak to a human. The penalty for doing so is immediate and permanent exile.”

Erik’s eyes widened. “So…are you…”

“Oh, very much so. The elders discovered my friendship with Richard soon after that first summer. I haven’t been allowed back since.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Charles smiled, but his eyes were pained. “I’ve always been too curious for my own good. Selkie folk consider humans to be little more than animals. Most of you have no _anáil_ : life breath, the mark of civilized creatures.”

“Most of us?”

“You have it. I imagine thousands of years ago, some of your ancestors mingled with some of mine and produced a line of humans of mixed blood: fae and mortal in one.”

“Mutants.”

“If you prefer. But even you, the half-bloods, my people would deem unworthy of consideration. Some of the more — ” Charles grimaced. “ — _traditional_ of the elders even think of your kind as abominations. In any case, they have no interest in your societies. The fact that many a selkie in our long history has met death at the hands of humans only strengthens their revulsion.”

“But you didn’t agree,” Erik guessed. 

“I was born with this.” Charles tapped his temple with a fleeting laugh. “Both a blessing and a curse. I could hear the thoughts of humans as their ships passed by, or when I dared to swim close enough to shore. I knew they weren’t animals. I knew they weren’t stupid. In fact, they were brilliant.” 

“And you couldn’t resist.”

“I tried to. I stayed in the deep waters, I never let myself stray close to shore for long, I tried not to follow when ships passed overhead. And then one day I saw Richard on the beach. He was alone, and so was I.” Charles smiled helplessly. “It seemed inevitable, what happened after that.”

Erik was struck by a sudden, impossible realization. “You were in love with him.”

“I think I was,” Charles said simply, without any hint of self-consciousness or discomfort. “We don’t think of _love_ like you do, you understand, but I think I loved him. He loved me, too, for a while.”

Erik absorbed this in silence for a long minute. Then, not knowing what else to say, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t regret it. And it was a long time ago.” This time when Charles smiled, it was warmer, more genuine. “Anyway, to answer your question, it was Richard who taught me to have a sense of humor. I was terribly awkward when we first met. He showed me how to act — well, human.”

Erik shifted over to the back corner of the garden, the last bastion of the weeds. “Can I ask another question?”

“Of course.”

“How did you end up on the beach here with a broken leg?”

“Ah.” Charles flushed. “I was walking in the shoals. I was feeling…nostalgic, I suppose. I wanted to walk on a beach, and I knew this island was isolated enough that you wouldn’t notice me. But it had been a long while since I’d last walked on human legs, and I underestimated the storm that blew in.” 

The gale that had lashed the island for nearly four days straight last week. Erik could see the pieces of the story coming together. “It caught you off-guard.”

“A wave knocked me off my feet. I don’t remember much after that.”

“You’re lucky you washed back to land instead of out to sea.”

“I know.” Charles stroked the sealskin slowly. “I don’t think I could change back with my leg like this. I would have drowned.”

And Erik might have stumbled across a corpse days later instead.

“Well,” Erik said after a moment, “I’m glad that didn’t happen.”

Charles smiled. “Me too.”

*

As the days passed, Charles seemed to grow more comfortable with Erik’s company, to the point of seeking him out whenever he was in the house. Alba was Erik’s first shadow, and Charles became his second: wherever Erik went, behind him followed the soft padding of paws and the slow tap-tap of Charles’s crutches on the concrete floor.

At first Erik merely tolerated it. Charles had limited mobility, he was cooped up in the house unless Erik helped him outside, he only had so much to keep him occupied (he’d already read all three of the novels Erik had gotten him at least three times from cover to cover). Erik couldn’t begrudge him the need to find other means of entertainment, even if that came in the form of drawing Erik into long, rambling conversations that he found it inexplicably difficult to extricate himself from. Oftentimes Charles wouldn’t even mind if Erik offered no meaningful contribution; he was perfectly content with sitting near Erik and talking at him about any number of topics: the birds he had seen out the window earlier, the BBC articles he had read that morning (which he usually pestered Erik to provide context for), the scientific papers on the X-gene that he’d scrounged up, and did Erik know that in 1644, Oliver Cromwell outlawed pie? How could a food be outlawed?

And then, gradually, he started to enjoy having Charles near. It took him a while to realize it, but on occasions when Charles left Erik to his own devices, Erik found the resulting silence…odd. He couldn’t focus — his thoughts wandered to Charles, wondering what he was doing, why he hadn’t come to say hello, worrying inanely that Charles might have fallen and concussed himself in the shower. Inevitably he would go and look and Charles would be perfectly safe on the couch or in bed, reading his books, tapping on the laptop, or practicing his handwriting in the journal Erik had given him (Moira had gifted it to him when he’d first moved here so he could document his experience, but he’d hardly touched it). Erik would immediately be irritated with himself, though the annoyance would fade somewhat when Charles favored him with a smile and a curious, “Did you need something?”

One evening as Erik sat in the living room toying with a few scraps of metal, trying to decide what his next project might be, Charles looked over from the kitchen where he was making himself a cup of tea and asked, “What would you consider a gift?”

Erik glanced over at him. “If someone gives me something, I suppose that would be a gift.”

“No, I mean, what do you _want_ as a gift?”

“I guess most people would want — ”

Charles made a frustrated noise. “I’m not asking about most people. I’m asking about you.” He paused, then added, “I want to give you something.”

Erik blinked at him in surprise. “What for?”

“For Purim.”

Now Erik stared.

Charles said, “It’s next week, isn’t it? I read about it on the internet, and there was a calendar with the days colored in.”

Feeling rather poleaxed, Erik said faintly, “How did you know I was Jewish?”

Charles pointed over at the front door. “The mezuzah.”

“ _Mezuzah_ ,” Erik said automatically, correcting his pronunciation. Then, with more amazement: “How do you know what a mezuzah is?”

“I was curious about it. I looked on google.”

Of course he had. Charles googled everything and then spent entire days soaking up as many obscure details about the topic as possible.

“It means this is a Jewish household,” Charles continued. Then he cocked his head. “But you don’t do a lot of things Jewish people do, like keep the sabbath.”

“I’m not religious,” Erik replied, wondering why Charles’s insightfulness could still surprise him. Charles spent all day exploring Erik’s house and researching every corner of it to his satisfaction. Most people probably would have ignored the mezuzah, or dismissed it as a vaguely interesting decoration, but Charles found everything fascinating and worthy of investigation. Of course he wouldn’t have rested until his curiosity was sated. 

“But the mezuzah…?”

Erik hesitated for a moment. Then, looking down at his hands, he said, “It was my mother’s.”

“Oh.”

Erik found himself continuing without making the conscious effort to speak. “It hung in the doorway of her house for twenty-six years. My grandmother gave it to her when she got married. And when I got married, she gave it to me.”

Charles went still. “You’re _married?”_

“I was. Her name was Magda. Childhood sweetheart.” He paused, then, in case Charles was unfamiliar with the term, explained, “We knew each other since we were kids.” 

There was a long silence. A log in the hearth split with a sharp _crack._ Alba raised her head at the sound of it, then laid her muzzle back on Erik’s foot and closed her eyes.

Finally Charles asked with obvious apprehension, “What happened?”

“She died. Car accident. It was instant — she didn’t feel a thing. That’s what the doctors said anyway.” 

Erik was genuinely shocked at how calm he sounded. Had it been long enough now that he could talk about it without feeling as if there were knives in his throat and his guts, shredding him apart? The pain was still there, sharp and hot and throbbing, but Erik realized it no longer made him want to crumple to his knees. He could breathe through it now without choking on the weight of the realization that she was gone.

How long had it been since he’d allowed himself to even think her name?

“Oh,” Charles said, with aching gentleness. “I’m very sorry.”

Erik stared down at his clasped hands, massaging the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right. For a few minutes, he held himself at the edge of the pool of memories he had been avoiding for three years now, not quite looking at it but not fleeing from it either. Then, very carefully, he let himself remember her face, like unfolding an old, well-worn photograph.

It hurt like a knife to the gut to picture her infectious grin, her mischievous eyes, the way her dark hair had felt tangled in his fingers. If he closed his eyes, he could hear her laugh ringing in his ears. When he breathed in, he imagined he could smell her perfume, peach and honey, sweet enough to make him dizzy. She used to love making him dizzy with nothing more than her sheer presence.

He couldn’t remember the last things they’d said to each other. He wanted it to have been, _I love you, never forget that I love you,_ but knew it hadn’t been anything so perfect.

“You came here afterwards, didn’t you?” Charles asked softly.

Erik didn’t reply; he thought the answer was obvious. His mother had been gone, Magda had been gone, and there had been nothing anchoring Erik to New York anymore. He’d dealt with his grief the only way he knew how: outrunning it. Genosha had been a godsend, an isolated, lonely rock where he didn’t have to pretend to be anything to anyone, where he could be as ugly and harsh and broken as he wanted. If he was going to fall apart, then he damn well wasn’t going to do it with witnesses.

But he hadn’t fallen apart. He’d fallen into a routine instead, working from dawn until dusk until his entire body was sore and his mind was too fuzzy with exhaustion to think or dream or remember. The island took whatever he would give it, and he gave it everything.

And now he felt as if he were looking up for the first time and realizing with a shudder of bewilderment that three years had passed.

“Erik?”

He looked up. He was shocked to see that the room was blurry, that his eyes were stinging with a pain he’d thought he’d managed to outpace.

Charles took up his crutches and levered himself to his feet. Closing the distance between them, he settled gingerly on the arm of the armchair and carefully propped his crutches up against the back of the chair. Then he leaned forward and gently gathered Erik to his chest. 

He could remember very clearly the last time anyone had touched him like this: he’d sat shiva for Magda, and on the first day, her mother had hugged him very briefly, just a mere press of her arms. She had been crying; his eyes had been dry. He had never cried, not once in those seven days.

He didn’t know why he allowed Charles to hold him then. He didn’t know why his hands came up of their own accord to grip Charles’s shirt with tight desperation. And he didn’t know why now, after three years, the sobs finally came, like a storm breaking at last.

*

Afterwards, Charles made him tea. He always made it too sweet — they’d discovered early on that he had an incredible sweet tooth — but Erik accepted the mug wordlessly and let the heat seep into his palms.

He was mildly appalled at himself, but Charles gave him no opportunity to be mortified. He sat back down on the couch, looked across the coffee table at Erik, and asked, “Will you tell me about her?”

Erik took a slow, deep breath. After a moment, he decided there was no harm in it; Charles had already seen him utterly lose his composure. What dignity did he have left to lose? And he found himself too weary to care.

So he told Charles about her. He told Charles everything: about how they had grown up on the same street and spent nearly every day at each other’s houses; about how she had kissed him first when he’d been sixteen and she’d been fifteen, because she had always been braver than he was and more sure of her own feelings; about their last date before they had parted to go to separate universities, a night he’d been dreading, but then Magda had whispered to him in the darkness that she loved him and the night had become perfect.

He told Charles about the wedding, and the house they poured their savings into, and Magda going for a PhD because she’d always loved studying in a way he hadn’t. After a long pause, he told Charles about how they’d begun to discuss children. Magda had wanted ten. Erik had laughed and told her he wasn’t sure he could keep up.

When he finally stopped, his voice was scratchy and hoarse. He felt like an empty well, cracked open and dry. And yet something had loosened in his chest. He could breathe more easily again, though he hadn’t been aware that he had been living on half-breaths for the last three years.

Charles had listened in attentive silence for the whole evening. Now he said softly, “She sounds wonderful.”

“She was.” Erik studied his hands. “There was more. So much more. I’ve only scratched the surface. I wish…” He closed his eyes. “I wish I could remember her better.” Three years had scuffed some of his memories, worn them away at the edges. Words couldn’t do her justice. Neither could his recollections of her.

“May I?”

When Erik opened his eyes, Charles had his fingers on his temple. He’d taken to using the gesture to signal that he wanted permission to use his telepathy, and after a beat of hesitation, Erik nodded.

Charles slid into his mind. Where Emma’s presence had always been cool and dispassionate, Charles’s was warm and bright. Erik fought against the inherent discomfort of holding his thoughts open to a telepath, reminding himself that Charles had never done anything to warrant his suspicion.

A hazy image began to take shape in the forefront of his mind, wavering like an image in water. Gradually, it crystallized and sharpened into a scene so vivid it was as if someone had switched on a projector in his brain: Magda’s beloved face, full of life and color; the warm, achingly familiar sight of their living room, cramped and cluttered but undeniably home; and the shabbat candles on the table, one lit, one waiting. Magda held the lighter out to him with a grin and said, “Hurry up, I’m hungry,” and he felt himself move to take the lighter in a daze. That was her voice. It was her voice as he hadn’t heard it in three years.

He lit his candle. Magda started the prayer, her voice low and meditative: _“Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh…”_

When Erik opened his eyes, he was back in the house on Genosha, the fire crackling and snapping in the hearth, Alba resting at his feet. Charles was gazing at him with tears in his eyes. Erik realized that his own cheeks were wet again.

“I…I didn’t know I still had that,” Erik said roughly. He had memories of hundreds of shared shabbats, of course, but none so incredibly vivid as that — or so he had thought.

“Was it too much?” Charles asked softly.

Had it been? A day ago, he would have recoiled at the idea of a telepath delving deep into his most cherished memories and pulling them out to be inspected like a specimen on a dish. But that wasn’t what Charles had done. Any discomfort Erik might have felt was subsumed by the bittersweet joy of having that memory again, of holding it close.

“No,” he said at last. “What did…how did you do that?”

“I accessed the brightest corner of your memory system. It was a very beautiful memory, Erik. Thank you.” 

When Erik looked at Charles again, it felt curiously as if he were encountering Charles for the first time, as if a shaft of blinding sunlight had shifted out of his eyes and finally Erik could see him clearly. Sitting there in borrowed pajamas, curled in Erik’s too-large sweater, sealskin wrapped around his shoulders, he seemed quiet and unassuming, easy to pass over. But if one looked closely enough, something more — charisma, or strength, or power, Erik couldn’t quite put a finger on it — radiated from him, and Erik felt a sudden kinship with moths that fluttered mesmerized straight into flames. 

Charles smiled slightly at Erik’s scrutiny. His cheeks took on a strangely endearing shade of pink. “What?”

“Nothing,” Erik said, forcing his gaze away. He rose and started to gather up his metal scraps on the coffee table. “Come on, it’s late. We should get to bed.”

*

March melted into April. The cold persisted as it did every year, but the fierce winter storms abated, leaving behind bright, sunny days that turned working outside into a pleasure rather than a chore. Every day now, Charles spent a few hours sitting by the garden, basking in the sun. Sometimes Erik would work near him, but more often than not, his tasks would take him to other parts of the island. They would see each other when Erik passed by for one reason or another, and Charles would always look up from his book with a smile and a sweet “hello.” Erik found himself searching for reasons to return to the house throughout the day, even if just for a few minutes. Sometimes Charles grinned at him as if he knew, and Erik would flush, feeling annoyed and embarrassed all at once.

Paul arrived in the first week of April with fresh supplies. Erik made the trip down to the small dock to greet him and collected the boxes and bags with nervous excitement. Evidently his expression wasn’t as neutral as he’d assumed because Paul arched a white eyebrow and asked, “Expecting something big?”

It was the first time in three years Paul had ever made a comment on his purchases. A little startled, Erik muttered, “Something like that,” and turned to load up the supplies onto his metal trolley before the captain could ask any further questions.

Back at the house, Charles was already waiting at the door. As soon as the trolley entered his sight, he practically salivated with excitement. “You were sure to order more of that chocolate drink, weren’t you?” he asked, stumping closer on his crutches. “And tea? And food for Alba — you didn’t forget, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t forget — I order her food every month.” Erik waved Charles back to give him space to unload the groceries. Charles watched with avid interest as Erik unpacked each item and assigned them to their proper location: pantry, fridge, freezer, cabinets. Every once in a while, he’d point out something he hadn’t seen before with an eager, “What’s that?” and Erik would have to pause and explain cucumbers, and squash, and wine.

Eventually, all the food was tucked away, and Erik went about collecting the bags. He’d repurpose them for something in the future; for now, he stored them under the sink. As he did, Charles said, “You forgot something.” When Erik glanced over, Charles pointed to the last box on the trolley. “There’s still this.”

Erik suppressed a grin. “That’s for you.”

Charles’s eyes widened. “For me?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

Charles frowned at him for a long moment, then turned his attention to the box. He started to pick at the flaps tentatively, and Erik floated the utility knife from its drawer to his hand and stepped over to slice through the tape. Charles glanced at Erik again and, when Erik gave him an encouraging nod, tugged the box open.

The gasp of pure delight that escaped from Charles’s mouth filled Erik with a rush of warmth. Charles reached in, and within several short seconds, his arms were full of books.

“So many!” he exclaimed, staring down at them with wonder. “Where did you get them all? There have to be ten here. No, twenty!”

“I called in a favor,” Erik said, unable to hold back his grin now. Moira might have been confused by his sudden interest in genetics and biology, but she’d gamely mailed over her recommendations on the subject. Her last email had strongly implied that she had _questions_ , but Erik had deigned not to reply.

“They’re…science books!” Charles crowed as he realized. “Crichton! Crick! And — oh, Darwin! _On the Origin of Species!_ ” He grinned madly up at Erik. “That’s my name. That’s why Richard called me Charles.”

“He…named you after Charles Darwin?”

“Yes,” Charles said happily. “Because I loved the excerpts he brought me so much.”

Erik wondered why he found that utterly charming instead of unbearably cheesy.

He shooed Charles back to the couch and brought the box over to him so he wouldn’t have to balance precariously on his crutches as he pored over the books. After that, Erik was utterly forgotten; Charles had no attention to spare as he ran reverent fingers over his new acquisitions, cooing over the raised lettering, smoothing out a few pages that had gotten folded or crinkled in transport. After a few minutes of watching him, Erik realized he was completely superfluous and got up to feed Alba with a huff of amusement.

He made dinner, pleased as always to have fresh ingredients on hand. It was a testament to how enthralled Charles was with his new books that he hardly even touched his food, and when Erik finally coaxed him to eat, he had his eyes on _The Selfish Gene_ the entire time.

Erik took himself off to the workshop after dinner and fiddled with the model lighthouse that he’d started to build a few days earlier. Normally Alba would have followed him and laid under the desk, but after a while, Erik realized he hadn’t been nudging fur with his socked feet. When he twisted around to glance out the open doorway, he glimpsed the end of the couch where Charles was curled up reading. Alba lay on the couch beside him, her tail thumping gently as Charles stroked her ears. The scene was so unexpectedly domestic and tender that Erik’s heart ached.

It was hard to believe that Charles had only been here for four weeks. He’d slotted so neatly into Erik’s life that already it felt as if he’d been living here for years. Over the last three years, Moira had come to visit twice, and both times, the house had felt cramped with an extra person in it, even someone Erik considered a good friend. But the house never felt cramped with Charles here. No, it felt lived in and warm, cozy in a way that Erik had never associated with this house before.

Charles glanced up, perhaps sensing Erik’s gaze. Their eyes met and held for a long moment — and then Charles smiled, ducked his head, and returned to his book.

Later that night as Erik supervised Charles getting back to bed (he didn’t need to these days — Charles was proficient with his crutches and hadn’t so much as stumbled once in the last couple of weeks, but Erik still felt the need to hover nearby whenever Charles went anywhere), Charles caught his wrist before he could turn to leave and favored him with warm smile. “Thank you for the books,” he said quietly.

Erik’s cheeks heated. “It was nothing.” 

Charles blinked. “They cost nothing?”

“Well — I mean, they cost _something_. But really, it wasn’t anything much.”

“Oh. Of course.” Charles released him and glanced away. “I thought they were a gift.”

“They were,” Erik said hastily. “They _are_.” Selkies, he realized belatedly, might not have any concept of self-deprecation. “I just meant…you don’t have to feel like you have to pay me back or anything. I just wanted to…” _Make you happy_ was perhaps too honest. “…get you something to keep you from getting bored. But you don’t owe me anything.”

“On the contrary,” Charles said, very seriously. His eyes fixed on Erik’s, bright and intent. “You saved my life. You’ve taken care of me for these last several weeks, asking nothing in return. I owe you an eternal debt. I will repay it as I am able, I swear to you.”

“Any decent person would have done the same,” Erik muttered, feeling oddly vulnerable under Charles’s direct gaze.

“Perhaps. But you were the one who found me. For that, I will always be grateful.”

The intensity in his regard was too much — Erik had to pace away, restless. After a few seconds spent searching for something to say, he gave up and chose to make his escape instead. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, Erik,” Charles said softly, such warmth in his voice that a shiver rolled down Erik’s spine.

Not quite knowing what he was running from, Erik fled.

*

Even the books, as marvelous and fascinating as they were, could only hold Charles’s attention for so long. Over the following couple of weeks, Erik began to notice a change in him. Rather than read, Charles would sit outside and gaze out toward the sea for hours at a time, his book forgotten on his lap. When they were inside, Charles seemed restive and tense: he would aimlessly wander the house from room to room, crutches tapping incessantly against the hard floor. When Erik asked him what he was doing, he smiled and said simply, “Exercising.” But Erik sensed something was troubling him, though he couldn’t guess what.

Then one morning close to noon, Erik returned to the house for lunch and found it empty. Frowning, he went to investigate Charles’s usual perch outside and was mildly alarmed to see that the chair was unoccupied, no Charles in sight. 

_Don’t panic_ , he told himself firmly. Charles sometimes went for short walks around the house, and Alba always went with him. If something had happened, surely Alba would have come running to find him, barking her head off.

He swept the area with his powers and suppressed another surge of fear when Charles’s crutches didn’t immediately ping his metal-sense. Closing his eyes, he pushed his abilities out further, scouring the nearby buildings — and _there_ , up by the lighthouse. How the hell had Charles gotten all the way up there on his own?

Despite the uneasiness blooming in his gut, Erik forced himself not to run all the way up to the lighthouse. On the long walk up, he trailed his powers over the crutches, reassured by the warmth curled around the handles, Charles’s presence pressed into the metal. Still, the knot in his chest didn’t entirely loosen until he rounded the bend of the path and spotted Charles standing by the cliffside, whole and unharmed. As Erik neared, Charles’s shoulders stiffened slightly when he registered Erik’s arrival. That made Erik slow to halt, just outside of arm’s reach. Alba bounded over to greet him from where she’d been sniffing by the generator shed, but Charles didn’t turn.

For a long minute, neither of them said anything. The morning was cool and brisk, made even brisker by the stinging sea breeze that swept across the jagged outcrop on which the lighthouse sat. Erik ran his gaze over Charles and frowned when he saw that Charles was wearing only a sweater and pajama pants. He hadn’t even put on any shoes; the sock on his good leg was muddy and discolored from the trek from the house.

“Are you alright?” he said finally, closing the distance between them.

Charles gave him a sideways glance as he drew level and then turned his gaze back toward the sea churning far below. “I was just thinking.”

“About?”

“Home.”

Of course. Erik wanted to slap himself for being so blind. The last two weeks shifted into painful focus as understanding set in: Charles was a selkie, and selkies belonged to the sea. On the first day he’d woken up, he’d dragged himself all the way to the edge of the ocean on a broken leg in a bid to return home. It was honestly a wonder that it had taken nearly six weeks for him to reach this point now. 

“Are you…” Erik eyed the waves crashing against the cliff face, trying to decide on a diplomatic way of asking whether or not Charles was planning to take a dive anytime soon.

Charles’s lips twitched in a tiny smile. “No, you don’t have to worry about me disappearing on you. I promise I’ll tell you before I go.”

 _Before_ I go. Not _if_. Erik’s heart sank so abruptly that it left him dizzy.

“Your leg’s not fully healed,” he managed after a moment.

“I know. But it will be soon, won’t it? You said yesterday that I could start putting a bit of weight on it again.”

“Yeah, but — you still won’t be at full strength. You’ll need to do physical therapy. And you’re still in no condition to swim. If you try anything too strenuous and end up breaking your leg again, chances are it won’t fully heal.”

“I _know_ ,” Charles snapped, whirling on Erik with a snarl. “Don’t you think I know that? You’ve said it a thousand times. But I can’t stay here forever. I belong out _there_.” He jabbed a finger at the horizon. “ _That’s_ my home. This is just — it’s a prison. A pleasant one, it’s true, but a prison all the same, and you — you’re nothing more than my jailer.”

The silence that followed rang in Erik’s ears like a gunshot. Over the last few weeks, he’d grown accustomed to gentle, polite, thoughtful Charles. The boy he’d first met, the one who had been frightened and furious and hostile, had receded from memory. But when Erik looked at him now, practically crackling with a fierce anger that prickled against Erik’s skin like an impending thunderstorm, it was impossible to pretend Charles was anything other than what he was: a selkie, a creature utterly alien to Erik’s world, one whose path had never been intended to cross Erik’s own.

Erik stepped back.

Charles turned to follow. When he saw Erik’s face, his expression lost its glowering intensity, and just like that, he was familiar again. He sounded almost guilty as he said, “Erik, wait.”

“Alba,” Erik said evenly. “Come.”

She came trotting up to him obediently.

“Erik, please — ”

He turned and headed back down the slope. He felt the crutches jerk and stutter as Charles tried to chase after him, and some part of him screamed for him to turn and go back, to make sure Charles didn’t do something idiotic like fall and break his skull open. Furious, he quashed the urge and strode faster back to the house, refusing to glance back even once. After a few seconds of awkward stumbling, the crutches came to a stop. Charles’s gaze burned as it followed Erik until he vanished from sight around the bend.

As soon as he entered the house, he made for his workshop. Metal bent toward him as he passed — doorframe, coffee table, iron grate at the hearth, lamps, fridge, sink. Ignoring them, he slammed into his workshop and sank every ounce of his fury into every available scrap of metal. The sculptures on the shelves crumpled. The lighthouse he’d been putting the finishing touches on squealed as it twisted into a heap. The table warped and collapsed in on itself, legs melted to slag.

It wasn’t enough. He seized on the debris and crushed it all together into a jagged, misshapen ball. When he clenched his fists, the ball screeched as it compacted in on itself. He did it again, then again.

When the red haze cleared from his vision, he stood in the middle of his destroyed workshop, panting and cold. To his intense frustration, he didn’t feel better. He only felt drained, as if he’d been scraped out and left raw.

At a loss for what else to do, he fell back on routine. He made lunch, fed Alba, stared at his empty email inbox, and then, after a long hesitation, irritably set aside leftovers for Charles whenever he decided to come back. _If_ he decided to come back. If he didn’t, then — well the leftovers would keep for Erik’s lunch tomorrow.

Yanking his coat back on, he went out to tackle the afternoon tasks, giving the lighthouse a wide berth. He could feel Charles’s crutches still up there, unmoving. The fact that he had to fight the urge to go back up and make sure Charles was alright infuriated him. What good was his concern? Charles didn’t want it. He tolerated Erik only because he had no other choice. And yet why, even knowing that, did he still _worry_ about Charles?

 _You’re a bloody idiot,_ he sneered at himself. _That’s why._

With that cheery thought, he stomped off to start repairs on the eroding wall of the weather station.

Normally he made sure to be home by dusk, but today he stayed out well past dark, working by fading daylight, then by feel. It was only when it became too dark to even see his hands in front of his face that he had to admit he was being stupid and reluctantly packed away his tools.

The trek back home was slow and cautious. Even with the house in the distance calling to his metal-senses like a beacon, Erik probably would have stumbled into a ditch and seriously hurt himself if he hadn’t walked these paths a thousand times over the last three years. Some hundred meters off, lights shone through the open slats of the windows, squares of soft, glowing yellow in the blackness. So Charles had made it back alright. Erik told himself the relief that swelled in him was solely because he was in no mood to go digging Charles out of a hole he’d fallen into by accident.

When he opened the door, Alba jumped up from her spot by the fire and came scampering over to greet him. After shucking his coat, he leaned down to scratch her ears and murmur a soft apology for being out past her dinnertime. But when he glanced at her bowl, it was half-full of kibble, a tell-tale sign that she’d already been fed for the evening. Tail wagging, she licked his face and trotted off in the direction of the kitchen.

Abruptly, Erik realized that the stove was on. The house smelled quite strongly of onions.

Frowning, he rounded the corner and halted in confusion and surprise. Charles was standing in the kitchen, Erik’s apron tied around his waist, a ladle in one hand as something bubbled audibly on the stove. Turning, he gave Erik a tentative smile and said, “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“You’re…cooking?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know how to cook.”

“I’ve watched you enough times to get the idea. And I looked up some guides.” He gestured at Erik’s laptop perched on the counter. “There has been some…er, trial and error, but I think it’ll turn out alright.”

He had a smudge of red sauce on his cheek. Leaning against the doorjamb, Erik slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Well. You haven’t burned down the house yet, so I guess that’s a good sign.”

Charles laughed softly and turned back to stir the pot’s contents. After a minute, he glanced over his shoulder at Erik, his brows drawn. “Erik, I…I’m sorry. About earlier.”

Stiffening, Erik pushed off the doorway. “I need to shower.”

“Erik — ”

He braced for Charles’s mental voice to follow him as he hurried down the hall to the bathroom, but there was nothing, not even a knock for permission. Relieved and disappointed — and then annoyed that he was disappointed — he took an indulgently long shower, standing under the hot spray for so long that it started to turn cold again. Only once the water became too icy to endure did Erik reluctantly turn off the tap and climb out, shivering.

When he returned to the kitchen, Charles had set out two plates piled high with spaghetti and meatballs, accompanied by a starter salad and a bowl of dinner rolls. He gestured wordlessly to the spread as Erik reappeared and then stood nervously twisting his hands when Erik sat.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said, eyes flicking from the spaghetti to Erik, then back. “It seemed easy when I started, but I ran into some complications along the way. The onions — ” He shuddered. “Why do they _do_ that?” 

Erik willed himself not to laugh. It didn’t matter that Charles had made dinner. Erik was angry at him, and a minor gesture like this wasn’t going to change that. Stonily, he picked up his fork and stabbed at the salad with so much force that Charles winced.

“Well?” Charles asked eventually, after Erik had cleared half the plate.

“It’s a salad. Impossible to fuck up.”

“Oh.” Clearly he’d been hoping for more positive feedback.

Eyeing him, Erik said, “Are you going to sit down or are you just going to hover?”

Hesitantly, Charles pulled out the chair and sank down into it, watching Erik the whole time as if he expected Erik to change his mind and tell him to get the fuck out. When Erik only turned his attention back to his plate, Charles picked up his own fork and twirled a few noodles onto it.

Despite himself, Erik couldn’t help but watch as Charles chewed apprehensively. After a few seconds, his eyes widened, his eyebrows lifted, and once he swallowed, he exclaimed with genuine shock, “It’s not bad!”

“High praise,” Erik said dryly.

“Of course, it’s nothing compared to what you can make,” Charles said hastily, “but for a first attempt, I do think it tastes rather decent.”

“For prison food, you mean.”

Charles paled. “Erik — ”

“Forget it. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Let me apologize? Please?”

“Apologize for what?” Erik growled, jabbing at a meatball. “You were honest. I prefer that. Now we both know where we stand.”

“I was honest, yes, but I was also cruel. I shouldn’t have been.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Charles’s mouth slanted into a frown. “Of course it does. I hurt you.”

Erik snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Then, because he could see Charles working up to an argument, he said sharply, “Look. I don’t care what you think about this place. I don’t care what you think about me. I’m just helping you because it’s the decent thing to do. As soon as you’re better, you’re leaving.”

That silenced whatever fight Charles had been preparing. Swallowing hard, he glanced back down to his plate and pushed at his spaghetti. Satisfied, Erik returned to his own meal, glad for the peace and quiet.

Once dinner was finished, Charles slipped out of the kitchen as Erik set to washing the dishes, cleaning the counters, and packing away the leftovers. Charles had made far too much spaghetti and left a mess of spilled sauce, oddly-chopped vegetable pieces, and a veritable hill of pepper on the stove. It was honestly impressive that he’d managed to trash the kitchen to this extent. _It’ll be good when he’s gone,_ Erik told himself. _No more messes to clean up after._

When he finally emerged from the kitchen half an hour later, the living room was dark. Though it was far earlier than his usual bedtime, Charles had already retreated to his room, shutting the door behind him. After a minute of hunting around the house, Erik concluded that Alba had gone with him. Traitor.

He was in no mood to deal with the wreck of his workshop so he settled on the couch and booted up his laptop. Nothing succeeded in holding his interest though, and after about an hour, the internet crapped out. Not feeling like getting up to fuck with the router, he floated his laptop over to the coffee table, toed off his shoes, and stretched out on the couch.

He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him some indeterminate amount of time later, but when he opened his eyes, a silhouette loomed barely half a meter from him. Heart lurching in his chest, he was half a second away from jerking the nearest lamp into his hand as a weapon when he recognized the floppy hair, and the sealskin wrapped around hunched shoulders. 

“Jesus, Charles,” he hissed, sagging back onto the couch. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispered. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to say something.”

“It couldn’t wait till morning? It’s…” Erik ran his powers over the hands on his watch. “…nearly two in the morning. Fuck.”

“I won’t be long.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Erik sighed. “Fine. What is it?”

“You were lying earlier.”

Charles had woken him up in the middle of the night to fight? He had to be fucking joking. Erik exhaled sharply. “What?”

“You _do_ care about what I think of you. You’re afraid to say it, but it’s true.”

Erik curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to seize Charles by the collar. “Are you reading my mind?”

Either Charles didn’t hear the threat in Erik’s voice or else he ignored it. “I’m afraid, too,” he said steadily. “That’s why I said what I said this morning, out by the lighthouse. This place isn’t a prison. Far from it. It’s — it’s wonderful. And I was afraid that even after my leg was better and I could leave, I wouldn’t want to anymore.”

The rage that simmered under Erik’s skin begged to be stoked. It would be so easy to feed it, to unleash his fury until Charles escaped back to the safety of the bedroom. Erik didn’t give a shit about what he was scared about. All he cared about was making sure Charles’s leg healed up nicely enough that he wouldn’t ever have to come back.

The thought of never seeing Charles again sent a bolt of pain through him. _Look at that,_ said a cold, blackly amused voice in the back of his head. _You can’t even lie to yourself, let alone to him. Pathetic_.

“It’s not just this house,” Charles said quietly. “The books, the internet, the food — it’s all lovely, but it isn’t what I’d miss most.”

“Don’t,” Erik said with sudden desperation. If Charles said it, if he took that leap —

Charles limped a step closer. His face was still unreadable in the dark, only a suggestion of shadow. He sank awkwardly to his knees, reached out, and found Erik’s leg, then his hand. “I love the sea,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “It’s my home. Every day I miss it so fiercely it hurts. And it frightens me that I think — I think I would stay here if you asked me to.”

Somehow Erik managed to speak through the constriction in his throat. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’ve never meant anything more.”

“No, you’re not — ” Erik pulled his hand free, wishing he had room to retreat. Charles was too _close_. It was impossible to think with him that close. “You’re confused. You — ”

“I love you.”

The air froze in Erik’s lungs. All rational thought fled. He stared at the dim outline of Charles’s face and struggled to sift something useful from the static in his head.

“Is that clear enough for you?” Charles asked softly. “I love you, and it terrifies me.” 

Erik’s first instinct was to protest. Charles couldn’t love him. For a thousand different reasons, Charles couldn’t love him. Charles was a selkie, and Erik was human. Charles was hundreds of years old, and Erik was thirty-three. Charles was brilliant and vibrant and kind — everything Erik wasn’t. And, perhaps most crucially, Charles was _leaving_. He had to leave. This… _thing_ that had been burgeoning between them could never last.

“It doesn’t matter,” Charles said. “None of that matters. Do you love me?”

“Charles — ”

“Do you love me?”

“Fuck,” Erik croaked. “ _Fuck_.”

Leaning forward, he found Charles’s jaw with his hand and ran his thumb over Charles’s mouth. Charles’s breath brushed his fingers, soft and light. Erik felt himself unravel.

“Come here,” he said roughly, “come up here.”

Charles didn’t hesitate — he surged up off the floor and into Erik’s lap, clumsy with his leg. Erik wrapped his arms around him and tugged him closer, steadying him. Even this close, the room was too dark to make out Charles’s expression. Somehow that made it easier to close the last of the distance between them and slot their mouths together.

Charles was a very gentle, very tentative kisser. He held himself still, hands braced on Erik’s shoulders, and neither pressed forward nor pulled back. When Erik nudged against him, hoping for a response, he made a soft, surprised noise but made no attempt to move.

Erik sat back. “Charles?”

“Yes?” Charles sounded breathless.

“Is this alright?”

“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It doesn’t seem like you’re enjoying it.”

“Oh. I am. Very much so. I just…I’ve never done this before.”

Erik’s breath caught in his throat. “You’ve _never?”_ Charles shook his head. “But…” Erik hesitated, not knowing if he wanted to bring it up. Finally, he muttered, “Richard?”

“We never kissed. I think he felt that it was too intimate.”

The realization that Charles was a virgin struck Erik dizzy.

“No, no,” Charles said with a soft, short laugh. “I’m not. Or…I don’t think I am. A virgin is someone who has never engaged in sexual intercourse, yes?”

There was something horrifically lewd about Charles saying _sexual intercourse_. “Yes,” Erik managed, his voice strangled.

“Richard and I, we used our hands on each other. And he enjoyed mounting me — ”

“Oh my god,” Erik groaned, desperately thankful that it was too dark for Charles to see how fiercely he was blushing. “ _Mounting?”_

“Yes?” Charles said innocently. “Is there another term for it?”

“Just — never say that again, please.”

“Erik…” He could hear Charles’s grin, bright and delighted. “Are you embarrassed?”

“No.”

“Are you shy?”

“No,” Erik said, exasperated. “Can we just get back to kissing?”

“Mm, will it get more interesting? I think I’d rather…” Charles’s hand dropped to Erik’s crotch without warning, punching the breath out of him. “Can I put my mouth on you? Richard liked that.”

“ _Jesus_.” Erik caught Charles’s hand to keep him from groping further. “Okay. A few ground rules. One, no more talking about Richard. Two…”

He couldn’t think of a two, not with Charles’s hand so close to his cock. Charles sounded very pleased with himself when he leaned forward to murmur in Erik’s ear, “Can we move to the bed?”

How the fuck could Erik say no to that? 

Charles yelped as Erik gathered him up and stood. “Erik! I can walk!”

“This is faster.”

“No, it’s…this is…”

“I can put you down if you want.”

Charles’s arms tightened around Erik’s neck. “No…it’s alright.”

Smirking, Erik carried him into the bedroom, feeling his way by the metal bedframe. As he laid Charles down, Alba leaped up from where she’d been dozing on the pillows. Charles spluttered and laughed as she licked his face, and Erik hooked a finger under her collar and tugged her off the bed.

“Out,” he ordered. When she merely whacked her tail against his shins, he ruffled her ears and shuffled her out. “Sorry, but I’m not letting you watch.”

Once the door was shut, he climbed onto the bed. Charles had already shimmied his way up to the pillows, and when Erik reached for him and touched skin, he realized with a shudder of shock and arousal that Charles had already stripped.

“Turn on the light?” Charles murmured. “I’d like to see you.”

Erik obediently flicked the bedside lamp on with a twitch of his fingers. A soft, warm glow filled the room, throwing Charles’s eager, curious expression into sharp relief. One glance confirmed it: Charles was utterly, unselfconsciously naked, not a stitch of clothing on him, completely bare save for the splint wrapped around his bad leg. For a moment, all Erik could do was hover at the end of the bed and take him in.

He’d seen Charles naked before, back when he’d first found him half-drowned in the surf and dragged him home. Then he hadn’t paid much attention to what Charles looked like; he’d been far more preoccupied with making sure he was still breathing. Now though — now he had the luxury of looking his fill. Charles was as pale as Genoshan sand except in the places he was flushed red: his cheeks, his throat, his ears. Freckles cascaded down his neck and shoulders like stars, spilling down his arms. He had broader shoulders than Erik had expected, strong thighs, and hips that Erik itched to press his hands into. And his cock was as lovely as the rest of him, thick and weighty and half-hard already. 

Fuck, Erik thought despairingly. Charles was going to be the death of him.

“Am I…” Charles licked his lips, anticipation fading into uncertainty. “…to your taste?”

“I can’t believe you even have to ask that. You’re fucking gorgeous.”

That flush spread a little further down Charles’s neck, touching his collarbones. “Well,” he said, clearly gratified, “now let me see you.”

Erik made short work of his own clothes, keen on getting things moving. Within moments, his sweater, shirt, jeans, and underwear disappeared over the side of the bed, and he held obligingly still as Charles’s eyes trailed over him, widening as they dropped lower.

“You’re much larger than he was,” Charles said matter-of-factly.

Erik resolutely told himself he was _not_ inordinately pleased by that.

“So,” he said, ranging forward over Charles, “am I to _your_ taste?”

Charles smiled. “You’ll do.” Then, at Erik’s frown, he laughed and reached up to cradle Erik’s face. “You’re beautiful. Of course you are.”

There it was again, Charles’s ability to be so painfully sincere that Erik felt like he couldn’t meet his eyes, or else risk being torn open by his honesty. To distract himself, he bent and kissed at Charles’s jaw, then his neck, biting gently there until Charles arched against him and gasped, clutching at Erik’s shoulders. As Erik continued to kiss and suck at his throat, Charles ran his hands down the span of Erik’s back and stopped just short of his arse, fingers digging into the skin just above his hipbones. Erik ground down on him lightly, pressing their cocks together. Charles’s mouth popped open with a startled moan. Erik knew instantly that he’d do anything to hear that sound again.

“I’m not sure — ” Charles panted, rolling his hips against Erik’s. “You’re so large, I’m not sure that you’ll fit.”

Erik kissed his clavicles. “We don’t have to do that. Or — you could fuck me if you wanted.” As soon as he heard himself, hot arousal shivered down his spine. Yeah, that was an idea.

But Charles had stilled underneath him. When Erik lifted his head to look, Charles was staring down at him with surprise. “You’d let me do that?”

“Yeah, of course. Why not?”

“Well…Richard never wanted me to.”

A complicated torrent of emotion flashed through Erik. First, jealousy that Richard had ever had the privilege to lay hands on Charles. Second, anger that Richard had evidently thought himself too — what? Too good? Too _manly_ to ever think of bottoming? Too concerned with his own pleasure, not sparing any thought for Charles’s?

Then more rational thought reasserted itself. He knew absolutely fuck all about Richard. Maybe it had been internalized homophobia. Maybe he hadn’t had the chance to experiment. Maybe he’d just preferred sex that way. And besides, he was fucking dead. Jealousy was wasted on him.

“I’m not Richard,” Erik said at last.

If Charles had overheard the tangle of Erik’s thoughts, he gave no indication of it. He only smiled and reached up to card his fingers through Erik’s hair. “No, you aren’t.”

Erik kissed him again on the mouth, then worked his way down Charles’s chest and belly. When he wrapped his hand around Charles’s length, Charles made a low, encouraging noise in his throat. Erik shouldered Charles’s legs open, settled between them, and took Charles’s hard cock into his mouth.

“Oh,” Charles breathed out, staring down at Erik with wide eyes. His whole body trembled with astonishment. “So that’s what it — that’s what that feels like.”

Rather than waste any more energy on Richard’s shortcomings, Erik decided to send him a prayer of thanks for allowing Erik the opportunity to introduce Charles to the pleasure of receiving a blowjob. Then he banished all thoughts of Richard to the darkest corner of his mind and focused all his attention on the lovely weight of Charles’s cock in his mouth.

It had been years since Erik had done this. The last time had been in uni, a drunken fumble in a dingy bathroom as a party had raged on downstairs. Luckily Charles didn’t seem to notice or care that Erik was rusty — his eyes remained wide and amazed as he watched Erik suck him off. Erik laid his free hand on Charles’s leg to keep it open and felt the muscle there tense and jump. When Erik let himself relax open and took in another couple of inches, Charles moaned, hips bucking frantically.

And then, before Erik could even begin to prepare for it, Charles’s cock twitched in his mouth, and come burst hot and thick against the back of Erik’s throat. He pulled off, choking, and fell into a coughing fit so violent that Alba started to bark outside the door.

“Erik?” Charles sat up, his expression terrified. “Oh god, are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” Erik managed, still coughing. Getting up, he seized a tissue from the box on the dresser, wiped his mouth, and spat. “Fuck me.” He laughed, feeling ridiculous. “I’m out of practice.”

“You’re alright?” Charles asked, peering at him anxiously.

“I’m fine. You just caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Climbing back into bed, he pulled Charles close again. Charles resisted for a moment before folding into his chest, hugging Erik tightly. “Sorry. That killed the mood, didn’t it?” 

Charles kissed his shoulder. “I don’t know what that means.”

Erik huffed and stroked a hand through his thick, soft hair. “I hope that felt good at least.”

“Yes. God, Erik, that was…incredible.” Charles shivered against him. “I’ve never felt that good before.”

“You came so fast.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, it’s just…” Erik smiled against his ear. “We’re going to have to work on that if you’re going to fuck me.”

“Oh.” Charles pulled back slightly, eyes wide. “Now?”

“No, not now. Later. We can take our time.”

The words fell over them like buckets of ice water. How much time did they really have left? How long would it be before Charles’s leg was fully healed and he returned to the sea? Erik already knew that when it came down to it, he could never ask Charles to stay. Not when he belonged to another world entirely, one Erik could never be a part of.

“Don’t,” Charles whispered. “Don’t think of that now.”

Erik turned his face against Charles’s temple, glad Charles couldn’t see his expression. “Alright.”

A minute later, he jolted when he felt Charles’s hand sneaking down between them. “You didn’t come,” Charles murmured. “Let me.”

“Oh. How do you want…”

Charles pushed him onto his back and licked his lips. Erik managed a faint, “Oh,” before Charles rendered him incapable of any further coherent thought.

*

Barely three hours later, Erik’s alarm startled him out of a very deep, very pleasant sleep. Groggily, he groped for his phone and realized it wasn’t within arm’s reach. Summoning it from the living room, he silenced the alarm and dropped his head back to the pillow with a groan.

“I thought you liked mornings,” Charles mumbled into his shoulder.

“Usually I get more than five hours of sleep,” Erik replied. But any hint of weariness vanished as he took stock of how they were tangled together: Charles nestled in his arms, his face pressed against Erik’s chest, his good leg tucked between Erik’s own. When he stroked his fingers through Charles’s hair, Charles practically purred. Erik’s heart swelled with warmth.

“I should get up,” he murmured finally, nudging a kiss against Charles’s temple.

“Must you?”

“The weather report can’t wait.”

“But I’m so comfortable.”

Erik laughed. “You make a compelling argument.” No sarcasm there — for the first time in years, he found the prospect of sleeping in genuinely tempting. Surely an extra half hour wouldn’t hurt. The bureau probably wouldn’t even notice if his morning report was late. And his list of tasks for the day wasn’t too extensive. He could afford to push everything back slightly…

Alba leaping onto the bed and licking at his face truncated that idea. Laughing, Erik twisted away from her eager whuffs. “Alright, I’m getting up, I’m getting up.”

Charles grumbled and whined but let him go. As Erik rooted around on the ground for his clothes, Charles watched him with a soft smile that made Erik feel strangely shy. Once he’d pulled his layers on, he climbed back onto the bed and leaned down for a kiss, pleased when Charles reached immediately to tug him closer.

“Mm,” he said after a minute, grinning against Charles’s mouth. “Morning breath.” 

“What’s morning breath?”

“You can google it when you wake up,” Erik said. He ruffled Charles’s hair fondly and let Alba lead the way out.

Normally he didn’t mind the weather report. Though others might have found the daily notations tedious, Erik considered them practically meditative. This morning though, he scribbled down his observations impatiently, barely taking the full time to read the swells and record cloud data before sending the report off and rushing back to the house. He had half a mind to return to bed, but when he came through the door, the lights were already on and Charles was in the kitchen, humming softly as he worked by the stove.

“You’re up?” Erik said in surprise.

Charles turned and smiled. “I thought I would make breakfast. That’s what people normally do after…well, the morning after sex, isn’t it?”

“Who told you that?”

“Google.”

Of course. Erik grinned and shrugged off his coat. Tossing it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table, he came over to wrap his arms around Charles from behind, nuzzling at his hair. “What’s for breakfast then?”

“I thought eggs would be easiest,” Charles replied, leaning back into his chest. “The internet seems to think that scrambled eggs are impossible to mess up.”

“They’re pretty foolproof,” Erik agreed. Then he glanced at the stove. “Did you grease the pan?” 

“What?”

Fifteen minutes later, Charles’s eggs (slightly charred) had been scraped painstakingly from the pan, another four eggs had been scrambled in a greased skillet, and toast had been made and set out on a plate. As Charles poured them each a glass of orange juice, Erik fed Alba and refilled her water bowl.

“Where did you get her?” Charles asked as he limped back to the fridge, carefully carrying the jug of orange juice. “I haven’t seen any other dogs on the island, so I imagine they’re not native.”

“No, they’re not,” Erik replied, mildly amused at the idea of a pack of wild dogs roaming Genosha. “You remember Paul?”

“Of course. He’s the ship captain who brings our supplies every month.”

 _Our_ supplies. Erik was slightly surprised by just how much he liked the sound of that.

“Yeah. Well he asked if I was interested in having some company on the island. His dog at home had had puppies, and his wife told him he couldn’t keep them all. Maybe…” Erik shook his head with a huff. “Maybe he thought I was lonely. I don’t know. But he offered me one of the puppies and I ended up saying yes.” 

“She _is_ good company,” Charles said, smiling over at her. She was crunching down breakfast leisurely, tail wagging as she nosed through her bowl.

“The best,” Erik agreed. He’d never been much of a dog person before she’d come into his life, but he’d never regretted taking her in, not even when she’d chewed up his best boots, or on every three a.m. bathroom run they’d had to make until she’d gotten old enough to wait till morning. Through his loneliest days, through the hardest anniversaries, she’d stuck by his side, the most faithful companion he had ever known.

“I’m glad you had her,” Charles said softly as he slid into his seat at the kitchen table. “Then and now.”

Erik paused. “Were you just reading my mind?”

Flushing, Charles stared down at his plate. “I was just — I didn’t mean — ”

“Charles. It’s fine.”

His eyes jumped back up to Erik’s, wide and startled. “Really? But I didn’t ask — ”

“You don’t have to ask.” Erik reached over with his hand palm-up and was gratified when Charles took it without hesitation. Lacing their fingers together, he said, “A few weeks ago, I told you I didn’t want you in my head because I didn’t want you seeing certain things. But…well, I think you know pretty much everything now. I don’t have anything to hide from you.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t.” Erik squeezed his hand. “I love your telepathy. It’s a part of you. Yeah, it would be nice if you said hello whenever you came in — ” he gestured to his temple with his free hand “ — but you don’t have to. I want you to be yourself around me.”

Charles’s answering smile was sun-bright and brilliant. “I’ll say hello. Of course I will.”

“Then don’t worry anymore about accidentally catching my surface thoughts,” Erik says, squeezing his hand again before letting go to pick up his fork. “I know you can’t help it. I’m a loud thinker anyway.”

“You are. You’re very emphatic.”

Erik laughed. “One of my friends used to say being in the same room with me sometimes gave her a headache. She’s a telepath, too.” 

“She’s read your mind, too?” Charles asked, eyes flashing with sudden annoyance.

“Yes?” Erik cocked his head as he processed Charles’s expression. “Hang on. Are you jealous?”

Lips twitching in a smirk, Erik waited for him to splutter and deny it, gearing up to tease him, but Charles said with his usual honesty, “Yes. I don’t like the thought of anyone else getting to see you the way I have.”

That killed Erik’s smirk before it had fully formed. Instead, he found himself dazed. Charles was _jealous_ over him. Of course, it was ridiculous to imagine _Emma_ of all people as competition, but he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed Charles’s little display of possessiveness.

“You have no reason to be jealous, you know,” Erik said after a moment. “Of anyone. You’re the one I want, no one else.”

Cheeks pinking, Charles ducked his head. “You’re the only one I want, too,” he said softly into his eggs.

Taking a sip of his juice, Erik debated his next question, then decided there was no harm in asking. “There’s never been a gentleman selkie who’s caught your eye?”

Charles smiled. “No. No ladies either, or others. Even if I _had_ taken an interest in anyone, I doubt they would have given me a second look. I was always quite peculiar among my kind. Preoccupied with the surface, intrigued by ships and human constructs rather than frightened by them. I’m sure some of the other selkies believed I was cursed. I could never have entered into a respectable union.”

“They’d probably lose their shit if they could see you now.”

Charles burst out into bright, delighted laughter. “Yes. Yes, I think they would.”

They ate breakfast in silence for a while, Charles scarfing down his eggs and toast as if he hadn’t eaten in days, Erik watching him with indulgent fondness. When Charles had polished off the last crumbs on his plate, Erik leaned back in his seat and said, “Can I ask you something?”

Charles licked at the mustache of orange juice left on his upper lip. “Of course. Anything.” 

“You said you weren’t allowed back to your…” Erik frowned. “What do you call a group of selkies?”

“Hmm…I suppose the closest word in English would be a herd.”

“Your herd then. They threw you out.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re never allowed back?”

Charles’s smile was more sad than anything. “Yes, they were quite adamant about that.”

“Then…even if you go back to the sea, you could come back, couldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t be beholden to anyone, it’s true. I can go wherever I’d like, whenever I’d like. But…” Charles bit his lip. “I’m not meant to live like this, Erik. In this body. I’m comfortable with it now, but I will always long for what’s out there.” He glanced toward the window above the sink. Through it, they could make out the grey line of the sea in the distance, stretching on toward the horizon. “I love you,” Charles said softly. “I love you. But that’s my home. Do you understand?”

Erik swallowed hard. “I do.”

They were silent for a long few minutes. After a while, Charles roused from his thoughtful trance and gave Erik a small smile. “I could come visit though. It wouldn’t be goodbye forever.”

“Yeah,” Erik said, hoping his own smile seemed at least halfway sincere.

“But I couldn’t ever live like this,” Charles said quietly, his gaze drifting back to the window. “Not forever. And…you deserve more than that.”

Erik stilled. “What?”

“If… _when_ you meet someone else,” Charles said with obvious difficulty, “I will be happy for you.”

Where the hell had this come from? Barely half an hour ago, they’d been laughing, teasing each other, basking in the warm glow of mutual affection. And now Charles was talking about Erik meeting someone else. The one-eighty was nearly sharp enough to give Erik whiplash.

“Charles,” he said as evenly as he could, forcing back the bewildered anger, “I just told you I don’t want anyone else.”

“Not now,” Charles insisted, “but later. Years from now, perhaps.”

“I’m not going to want anyone else _years from now_. I don’t care if I only get to see you every few — ” He struggled for a moment with the uncertainty. “ — weeks or something, I’ll still want you.”

Charles’s smile, which had been sad earlier, was positively melancholy now. “You know, Richard said the same thing at first.”

Erik clenched his teeth. After a moment, he got up and started the dishes. He could feel Charles watching him but ignored his stare as he scrubbed the silverware clean, then the plates, then the pans. Finally, drying his hands on the dish towel, he said, “I have to demold the lighthouse. I probably won’t be back until lunch or after.”

“Alright.”

“You can start lunch without me if you get hungry.”

“Alright.”

Not knowing how else to leave the conversation, Erik hung the dish towel back on its hook and made for the door. Before he stepped out of the kitchen though, Charles said, “Erik?”

He paused by the door, glancing back.

“Are you angry with me?”

If he had been — and maybe he _had_ been — any trace of irritation faded away at the hesitant, questioning look in Charles’s eyes. Feeling slightly guilty, he retraced his steps and raised his hand to card it through Charles’s hair. Charles leaned into the caress like Alba did, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

“No,” Erik said. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He bent to collect a kiss, which Charles gladly gave him. By the time Erik eventually tore himself away, grinning, his heart was light and warm again, like a bird taking flight in the sun.

*

For the first time in three years, Erik could say that life was unequivocally good.

Every morning he woke with Charles in his arms. At the alarm, Charles would grumble and stir and occasionally convince Erik to stay in just five more minutes, but he would eventually release Erik to get dressed. Erik always paused at the bedroom door for a minute or so, just savoring the sight of Charles tucked snugly in his bed, his hair rumpled and wild, blankets pulled to his nose. Then he’d head out for the weather report, and by the time he returned, Charles would be in the kitchen attempting breakfast, the coffee pot burbling in the corner.

“Don’t expect this every morning,” Charles had told him on the second day, waving a spatula sleepily. “This is far too early for civilized people to be awake.”

And yet he was up every morning by the time Erik got back, ready to present him with a bowl of oats, or a plate of eggs and toast, or pancakes. Erik would thank him with a kiss, and after breakfast, he’d have his coffee while Charles mused on what he’d do for the day. With his leg getting stronger, he was starting to take short walks on the island, and these days he’d normally spend all day outside strolling up and down the paths for exercise. Every time they ran into each other, Erik was compelled to stop what he was doing and spend at least a few minutes enthralled with Charles’s company. It wasn’t that Charles was doing anything specific. Erik simply found the most mundane things about him captivating: the way he cleared his throat, the way he brushed his hair back from his forehead, the gentle and polite way he announced his presence in Erik’s mind.

In the evenings, they sat together in the living room, sometimes talking, sometimes occupied with their own separate activities. One night, Charles limped out of the bedroom with a familiar bundle in his arms and set it carefully down on the coffee table.

Erik, who had been reading one of Charles’s books (the summary had been interesting, but the prose was so dry Erik was tempted to use it as kindling), glanced up and raised his eyebrows when he saw what it was. “I haven’t seen that in forever.”

“It was under your bed,” Charles said, dropping down beside Erik on the couch. “It’s very dusty.”

“I’ve never used it.”

Charles frowned. “You don’t play?”

“I do. But Moira bought me this board for my birthday years ago and…” It had been just before Magda’s accident. He’d never had the chance to try the set out after that.

Charles’s eyes were soft and knowing. Thankfully he didn’t comment; he only said, “Do you want to play?”

Erik cocked his head. “You know how to play chess?”

He expected Charles to bring up Richard again, because Richard had evidently spent that summer teaching him everything under the sun. But Charles smiled and, sounding quite pleased with himself, said, “I found the board a while ago actually. I got curious about it and looked it up. The game sounded interesting so I found a few tutorials and…” He opened the case and unfolded the board. “I think I’ve got the hang of it.”

Erik floated the pieces out of the case and to their proper positions on the board. This was part of why Moira had bought the set for him: each piece was exquisitely carved, nickel layered over wood, light enough for travel, perfect for handling with Erik’s powers. He ran his metal-sense over each piece as he placed them in their squares, admiring the handiwork. He couldn’t have crafted anything more intricate himself.

When he looked up, Charles was watching him with that same wondering expression he always wore whenever Erik used his powers. “I will never get tired of seeing you do that,” he said, grinning.

Erik huffed. “What, move a few scraps of metal around?”

“Yes. Your control is incredible. And the breadth of your powers — you’re capable of such fine movements but also astonishing feats of strength.”

“Don’t exaggerate,” Erik muttered.

“No, it’s true,” Charles insisted. “I saw you lifting those solar panels the other day!”

“They’re much lighter than they look,” Erik said with amusement. “Otherwise the roof wouldn’t be able to take it.”

“Oh. Well what about when you took one of those old generators out of the shed to clean out the corner? _That_ isn’t light!”

“It’s still not that heavy.”

“I’ve never seen you strain to lift anything, no matter how big,” Charles said firmly. “I wonder if there’s even a limit to your powers.”

Erik laughed. “Of course there is. Everyone has their limits.”

“But I don’t think you’ve ever come _close_ to reaching yours. Aren’t you curious about what you could do?”

“I know what I can do. When I was a kid, my mother used to take me to a junkyard on the weekends. I have no idea how she convinced the owner to let me play around in it, but I was allowed to do pretty much anything I wanted. By the time I graduated high school, I could lift ten cars at once.”

“Ten cars!”

“With a lot of effort, mind you. But…” He couldn’t help but smile at the memory. His mother had been so _proud_ of him, clapping and whooping as he’d fought to hold all ten cars aloft. “It felt good.”

“See?” Charles leaned forward. “I wonder if you could do more with practice.”

“More,” Erik echoed, both intrigued and entertained at the idea. “Like what?”

“I wonder if you could lift Paul’s ship.”

“Paul’s ship.” Erik barked a laugh. “I know it looks small, but it’s got to weigh tons.”

“Cars weigh tons.” 

“Yes, but not that many.”

“How can you know if you’ve never tried?”

“I doubt Paul will appreciate me practicing my powers on his ship,” Erik said wryly.

Charles grinned. “I don’t know. I can be convincing when I want to be.”

“You certainly can,” Erik huffed. He got up and crossed over to the armchair, pulling it close to the other side of the board. “Come on. You said you wanted to play.”

Charles’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Yes. I’ve only ever played against a computer, so I’m not sure I’ll be any good.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

He shouldn’t have bothered — Charles trounced him twice in a row before Erik shook off some of his rust and managed, barely, to force a stalemate on the third try. Despite his piss poor showing, Erik found himself thoroughly enjoying the evening. It had been ages since he’d played, and he’d forgotten how much he relished the strategy, the plays and counterplays, the excitement of trying to think three steps ahead, five steps.

By the time they went to bed that night, they were both too exhausted to do anything other than curl up beside each other and pass out. Chess became a nightly routine for them. They always played at least one game before turning in, and Charles regularly reminded Erik of the running tally: eight wins for him, six for Erik, four stalemates. When Erik started to get tired of being on the losing end, he introduced Charles to strip chess and found, to his smug satisfaction, that that leveled the playing field considerably.

“It’s not fair,” Charles grumbled one night as he tipped over his king finally. He was down to wearing his underwear and one sock. “I can’t concentrate with you — ” he waved a hand at Erik, who was missing both his shirt and his pants “ — like that.”

“That,” Erik said with a smirk, floating Charles’s king over to his hand triumphantly, “is entirely the point.”

The sex was phenomenal. Some part of Erik wondered if it was only so good because he’d been celibate for years, and though he’d never admitted it, he _had_ been lonely, and maybe a bit starved for physical affection. But no, sex with Charles was _objectively_ good. Though Charles was relatively inexperienced, he was willing to follow Erik’s lead until, after several nights of Erik encouraging him to explore his own desires, he discovered a love for bossing Erik around in bed. There was nothing as hot as Charles delivering an order with a haughty, expectant glint in his eye, knowing Erik would obey. Even better was Charles kissing him fervently after they’d come and thanking him for being so good.

All in all, Erik was content. No, he was _happy_ , and every time he realized it, he felt strange and wonderful all over again, and intensely grateful.

But a subtle sliver of unhappiness underpinned every kiss, every touch, every cozy moment. It didn’t escape Erik’s notice that Charles’s walks often took him down to the beach, the very one Erik had found him on all those weeks ago. Sometimes Erik would spot him down there, sitting in the sand, not quite close enough for the water to reach him. He never brought his sealskin down, which Erik realized was his way of reassuring Erik: _I’m not leaving, not yet_.

But it would be soon. Charles’s leg improved by the day. His limp was hardly noticeable anymore. And every day he spent longer and longer down by the shore, gazing out into worlds Erik would never know.

Ever since breakfast that morning after their first time, they hadn’t discussed what Charles leaving would look like. How often would Charles come back? Would he even _want_ to come back after reclaiming his freedom? Perhaps he never intended to return, but he was being evasive in a bid to spare Erik’s feelings. Or what if he meant to see Erik again but forgot himself in the sea? He’d mentioned before that selkies had no concept of time and years like humans did. What could seem to be minutes to Charles could be a lifetime for Erik. The thought of watching Charles vanish into the waves, knowing their separation could very well be permanent, filled Erik with a deep, aching hollowness.

They were both skirting around the conversation, he could tell. But every day it felt closer.

Paul’s next visit marked eight full weeks since Erik had pulled Charles from the water. Erik made the trek down with Alba trotting on ahead of him, tail wagging furiously when she spotted Paul on the dock. His normally taciturn face split with a grin as she bounded up to him, and he thumped her side so firmly she yipped with pleasure.

“She’s looking good,” Paul remarked as Alba wriggled madly against his legs.

“She’s the queen of the island,” Erik replied with a fond grin. “I’m pretty sure she has even the birds doing her bidding.”

“She the one telling you to buy all these books?”

“Maybe I’ve just been bored.”

“Three years here and you’ve never been bored.”

“Maybe I’ve decided to change things up.”

“Hey, I’m not judging.” Paul gestured to the boxes ready to be unloaded. “You could have worse hobbies.”

They moved the load onto Erik’s trolley, which creaked slightly under the weight. Erik had ordered close to thirty books this time, a mix of scientific books, classics, and absolute drivel. Maybe he’d gone a bit overboard.

“Better be getting on my way,” Paul said once the last bag had been transferred over. “There’s supposed to be a storm headed this way. Bad one.”

Erik blinked. “A storm?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you hear it on radio?”

These days Erik had admittedly not been tuning into the radio as religiously as he’d used to. When he stretched his powers out as far as they’d go, probing through the skies, he couldn’t sense any hint of a gathering storm. Wherever it was, it wasn’t anywhere close yet.

“Yeah I’ll check it later. Thanks for the warning.”

With a few last pats for Alba, Paul hopped back onto his ship. Within minutes, he had dwindled to a speck in the distance, barely visible in the shimmering gold band of sunlight on the sea.

When Erik returned to the house, Charles was hovering by the door with barely disguised excitement. “Can I help unpack anything?” he asked, gaze already pinned to the largest box. “Anything that needs going in the fridge?”

“Just take your books,” Erik said dryly.

Charles grinned and seized the box.

But the half-life of his joy seemed shorter than ever. For a couple of days, he curled up on the couch surrounded by his new books, stroking the covers with all the gentle affection of a lover’s caress. But come the third day, Erik returned to the house for lunch to find that Charles had abandoned the stacks of books and stood gazing with blank, unseeing eyes out the kitchen window into the shimmering blue sea. When Erik saw him there, his expression full of longing that he seldom allowed Erik to see, his heart sank into that aching hollowness that he was beginning to identify as anticipatory grief. 

He didn’t even notice Erik’s arrival until Erik touched him on the shoulder. Then he startled and came awake, turning to Erik with a smile. “You’re back! I made sandwiches.”

Erik held out his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“What? But it’s lunchtime.”

“Just for a bit.”

Charles’s smile turned quizzical but he slipped his hand into Erik’s all the same. “Alright.” 

The breeze outside was brisk, salty, and refreshing. Sunlight poured down from a bright, cloudless sky, warming the cold rock of the island. Though Genosha never reached _hot_ , May brought more temperate weather, nearly swimming weather. The storm Paul had mentioned was still days off, slowly building momentum in the North Atlantic. It was as beautiful a day as Genosha ever offered.

When the path forked and Charles realized they were heading down to the beach, he hesitated. But after a moment, he submitted to the gentle pressure of Erik’s hand and followed a step behind, radiating uncertainty and reluctance. He no more wanted to have this conversation than Erik did. It was enough to make Erik consider for a second turning back around, allowing them to pretend for a little while longer that Charles might stay for good. But then he remembered that look in Charles’s eyes as he looked out to the sea, as if he were trying to remember something very dear that he had now forgotten, and he led Charles steadily on.

They came to a stop on the beach, facing the rushing ocean. The waves were calm, spilling forward in gentle crests to grasp at the sand for a handful of seconds before retreating. As far as the eye could see, there was only a deep, eternal blue, on and on into the bright horizon. 

“I’m not going to ask you to stay,” Erik said quietly.

“Erik — ”

“You belong out there. You miss your home more than you’re willing to admit to me. Every day you stay, you lose a part of yourself.”

He waited — hoped — for Charles to protest, to tell Erik all the ways he was wrong. But Charles said nothing.

Erik held fast to his courage. “I think you’ll be able to go soon. Your leg’s practically healed.”

“Yes,” Charles said softly.

The word slid into Erik like a knife. Somehow he managed to keep his composure as he continued. “Do you know when?”

“No. Not yet.” Charles stepped in close to Erik’s side, tucking himself under Erik’s arm. “I’m not ready to let go of this yet.”

“Alright.” Erik tightened his arm around Charles’s shoulders, resisting the urge to crush him to his chest and beg him not to go. “Just…warn me before you go.”

“Of course. I won’t leave without saying goodbye. I’d never do that to you.”

“And promise me you’ll try to come back sometimes.” Erik forced his tone to remain light. If he wavered, if his voice broke, he knew that Charles in all his kindness would rethink leaving, which would only make it more painful for them both in the end. “I’ll get lonely on this big old island without you.”

“You managed without me before,” Charles huffed, but he burrowed closer to Erik, arms wrapping around his waist. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

They stood staring out into the ocean for a long while, watching the waves beat against the sand in their tireless rhythm. Erik imagined coming down here in the coming weeks and taking in the view alone, knowing that Charles was somewhere out there. Would it be reassuring? he wondered. Or just fucking terrible?

“Erik?” Charles said finally.

“Mm?”

“I’d like to tell you something.”

The solemnity in his voice made Erik look down at him. “Yeah?”

“My name. My real name.” He leaned up and whispered a word delicately into Erik’s ear.

Erik’s heart kicked hard against his chest. Though he wasn’t sure of the significance, he knew there _was_ some significance to the moment, _great_ significance even. All those long weeks ago when they’d first met, Charles had practically spat at Erik for the offense of asking his name. Now he had given it to Erik freely, with all the gentleness of a kiss.

“Thank you,” Erik said, his voice gravelly. “For trusting me with that.”

Charles smiled. “Now you own me entirely. If you say my name, I’ll feel it here.” He tapped his heart. “I’ll know you’re thinking of me.”

“I’ll always be thinking of you.”

“Good.” Charles beamed at him. “But don’t forget to leave room for other things from time to time. I won’t be upset.”

Erik couldn’t envision having room for much else once Charles was gone. Already the thought of his absence made Erik hurt with such all-encompassing sorrow that his breath kept trying to catch in his throat. But instead of saying that, he simply pulled Charles into a long, lingering kiss. That was easier than words.

*

In the days before Charles’s departure, he tidied up the house. He piled his books in neat stacks. He folded up the nest of blankets that had taken up permanent residence on the couch with him. He made steady work of the tins of tea Erik had bought him over the last couple of months.

Part of Erik wanted to tell Charles not to bother, to stop erasing himself from the house before he had even left. But another part of him was glad — it would be less awful this way, not having to see memories of Charles everywhere he looked.

The approaching storm system was due to hit Genosha in three days. “It doesn’t look too bad though,” Erik said as he studied the storm tracker. “It’ll last half a day, maybe a full day. Then it’ll pass. But you probably shouldn’t leave until after.”

“After,” Charles agreed, and kissed Erik on the cheek.

That night they made love in front of the fire, cushioned by half a dozen blankets and pillows pilfered from the bed. When it was over, Erik released a shuddering breath when Charles finally pulled out of him, leaving a sweet ache in his absence. Lacing kisses across the back of his neck and shoulders, Charles murmured soft words of love into his skin, and Erik was glad his face was hidden in shadow because he felt that at any second, one of Charles’s caresses might completely undo him.

Later, after they had cleaned up and moved to the bed, Erik pressed a kiss against Charles’s temple and said into the darkness, “I love you. I don’t think I’ve said it before.”

He could feel Charles’s smile more than see it, a bright burst of warmth that washed over him like sunlight. “I know. You never had to say it.” Charles tucked himself closer against Erik’s chest, nosing at Erik’s shoulder. “Still, it’s nice to hear it aloud.”

The following afternoon, the storm struck. Rain thundered against the roof of the house, and howling winds whipped past in swelling gusts, rattling the window panes. Erik could hardly make out anything five yards past the front door. The world was a cyclone of grey.

“Are storms like this normal?” Charles asked, warming his hands on the mug of hot chocolate Erik brought him. 

Erik stared out the window with a frown. “During the winter, yes. In May, they’re less common. Still, it’s not unheard of.”

“You know, storms don’t feel so frightening when you’re in the sea.”

“We’re safe in here.”

“I know.” Charles sipped his drink. “It doesn’t _sound_ like it though.”

The pounding on the roof was so deafening they had to raise their voices to be heard. A jagged flash of light briefly illuminated the room and was almost immediately chased by a crack of thunder so loud Alba shot out from under the coffee table and bolted for the bedroom.

“Come on,” Erik said, resetting the chess match they’d abandoned last night in favor of necking on the couch like a couple of randy teens. “Let’s have a game before bed.”

Erik won the first. Charles won the second. They played a third tiredly, both ready to sleep, neither of them wanting the night to end. Finally, when Erik’s vision started to blur, he leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes. “I think it’s time for bed.”

Charles smiled ruefully. “Probably. If I were less tired I would have had you mated ten minutes ago.” 

“As if.”

Snickering, Charles took the hand Erik offered and allowed Erik to lever him to his feet. After brushing their teeth and changing into pajamas, they tumbled into the bed and snuggled under the covers. “Goodnight, Erik,” Charles said with a deep, jaw-cracking yawn, and was asleep within the minute. Erik followed soon after, lulled into unconsciousness by the steady drumming on the roof.

*

He woke with a jolt, skin prickling. Though he had no idea what had startled him awake, his chest tightened with the instinctive knowledge that something was wrong.

In his arms, Charles stirred. “What is it?” he asked muzzily.

Erik listened. The gale was still shrieking on outside, lashing the windows with rain. The house was secure — he sent his powers pulsing outward and sensed no broken glass, no collapsed roof, no splintered door. Alba snored lightly at their feet, paws twitching as she dreamed.

“I don’t know,” Erik said finally. Nothing seemed amiss, but the uneasy feeling in his gut refused to relent.

“I don’t sense anything,” Charles said after a moment. “It’s just us.”

“Yeah.” Slowly, Erik forced himself to relax again, wrapping his arm around Charles’s shoulders. “It’s probably nothing. A nightmare maybe.”

Charles’s fingers came up to brush through his hair. “Sleep. I can keep your mind calm if you’d like.”

“Yeah. Just…” Closing his eyes, Erik pushed his range out further, scanning the island. _Something_ had woken him. There didn’t seem to be a problem with the outbuildings, the generator was still pumping industriously, and the lighthouse —

The lighthouse. Erik sensed no buzz of electricity, no humming heat of the light. Abruptly wide awake, he sank his powers more deeply into the lighthouse’s automated system, its backup wiring, the great light itself — and found it completely, utterly dead.

“Shit.” He sat up. 

“Erik?”

“The lighthouse. It’s out.”

“Out? What does that mean?”

“It means the light’s out and that’s not fucking good.”

Alba leaped off the bed as soon as he scrambled out. As he shoved on his sweater and jeans, she danced around him, anxious with his energy.

“What do we do?” Charles asked, hurrying to grab his own clothes. “You can’t turn it back on from here?”

“No, the whole system’s down. It must be the storm.” Erik stamped on his boots, then turned to see Charles reaching for his coat. “No, you stay here.”

“But — ”

“It’s fucking terrible outside. You’re in no condition to go out.”

“I’m fine,” Charles argued. “If you need help — ”

“You don’t know the first thing about lighthouses, do you?” When Charles grimaced and glanced down, Erik softened. Stepping over to him, he pulled Charles into a hug, one hand pushing into his dark, thick hair. “I can’t be out there trying to fix the light _and_ be worried about you at the same time,” he murmured. “Hopefully it won’t take long. I just need to take a look at it close up to figure out what’s going on.”

“Alright,” Charles muttered against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around Erik and squeezed tightly for a moment. Then he pulled back. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

Alba tried to follow him out, but he shooed her back gently at the front door. “Stay with Charles,” he told her, scratching the bridge of her nose. “Give him some kisses.”

Donning his heavy raincoat, he opened the door and was nearly blasted back a step by a cold sheet of rain. Gritting his teeth, he pulled up his hood, turned on his headlamp, and leaned into the wind, hauling the door shut with his powers behind him.

Within five paces, he was drenched. Visibility was shit — he could barely see his own hand in front of his face, and he had to squint against the force of the rain. The headlamp managed to brighten the darkness from black to murky grey, but the beam penetrated only a meter or so before fading. Erik groped his way to the lighthouse mostly by feel, keeping his powers locked onto the building high on the slope. The storm had turned the path into a slurry that slipped and slid underfoot, and by the time Erik reached the door of the lighthouse, he was winded, freezing, and covered in mud. The door burst open under his shoulder, and only with a hard slam of his powers did he manage to shut it again against the tearing wind.

The relative silence inside rang. Erik’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, and for a moment, all he could do was lean against the door, muscles trembling as he fought to catch his breath. Once he felt steady again, he went up the stairs two at a time to the control room, which was uncharacteristically quiet and still.

Erik tried to switch the system on. No response. Even the lights in the room were dead, a sure sign that one of the breakers had flipped. Hopefully that meant an easy fix: flip the breaker, reboot the computers, make sure the light was back to functioning properly. In a storm like this with visibility so low, the sooner the light came on, the better.

He headed back down to ground level to the fuse box. Popping open the door, he was just aiming his headlamp to get a good look when a shiver of dread trickled down his spine like icy fingers.

Something was wrong. Not just the breakers, not just the light — something else.

Warily, he swept the tower with his powers and found nothing that screamed for immediate attention. After a moment, he pushed a thought in the direction of the house: _Charles?_

Almost instantly, Charles was there, warm and worried in the back of his mind. _Erik? Everything alright?_

_Fine. Are you and Alba okay?_

_Yeah. What is it?_

_Nothing. Something just feels_ …

His metal-sense snagged suddenly on a burst of brightness in the distance, far outside the lighthouse. Whatever it was, it was massive, rolling, straining hard.

Erik knew within a moment what it was. Still, he froze for a long minute, hand hovering over the breakers, struggling to process the horror.

Charles’s voice broke through the fugue. _Erik?_

 _It’s a ship_ , Erik said. _It’s a bloody ship, headed straight for the island._

His numb fingers found the breakers that had flipped and switched them back on. But it was too late — a system reboot would take five minutes, and by then, the ship would be far too close to adjust course, especially fighting the storm. They were going to plow right into Genosha’s cliffs. With the thrashing rain, they probably wouldn’t even recognize disaster until they ran aground.

Erik stared blindly at the fuse box, trembling. Then he slammed the door shut and ran.

 _Erik?_ Charles was practically spilling over anxiety now. _What are you doing?_

_I’m going to turn that ship._

_What? How?_

_I don’t know. But I’ve got to try._

Rain pelted him like bullets as he raced to the edge of the cliff beyond the lighthouse. He couldn’t see anything, but he could taste the salty spray of the sea as it swelled and roared and broke against the rocks. Diverting the ship in calm waters would have been a monumental task already; turning it now against the violence of the waves was impossible. Unthinkable.

He thrust his hands out anyway, poured his power forward, wrapped it around every beam and frame and bolt he could get a hold of, and _pushed_.

It felt like trying to push over a mountain. The metal creaked and quivered against Erik’s senses, struggling to obey his command, but the force of the waves battering against the hull threatened to rip the ship to pieces. He relented, searched for another pivot point, threw his weight in against it again, and again, the ship groaned and shuddered and refused to budge.

“Fuck!” he shouted, the word inaudible in the howl of the storm. The wind tore at him with such strength it nearly took him right off his feet. Dropping to his knees, he hunched down and thrust his hands out again, squeezing his eyes shut.

 _Come on,_ he thought as he sank his powers in deep, imagining gripping the prow in his hand as if it were a toy ship. _Come on, baby, work with me._

He pushed. The ship moaned against his hold, fighting against the implacable sea.

And suddenly Charles was there. _I’ve spoken to the captain,_ he said, his presence bright and urgent. _They’re trying to turn with you._

_You…wait, you did what?_

_Focus, Erik. Come on, you’ve got to help them, they can’t do it alone._

_I can’t. The ship’s too big._ He dropped his shaking hands, panting open-mouthed into the rain. Blood rushed in his ears, rolling and receding like a tide. His head throbbed.

 _Yes, you can._ Charles wrapped reassurance and encouragement around him, as warm and bracing as a physical embrace. _You’re more than strong enough, Erik. Remember your mother and the cars?_

_This isn’t a car, Charles!_

_Yes, it is. It’s just like that._

An image blossomed in his mind’s eye: his mother’s face, more vivid than any picture, her dark eyes full of delight as he hoisted one car after another. He heard her laughter ring in his head, felt her hand on his shoulder, grounding him and spurring him on. And her voice — god, her _voice_ — it was there in his ear: “ _I knew you could do it, bubbeleh, I never had any doubt.”_

The panic seizing his chest abated. His pulse slowed. Even the storm seemed less fierce, hushed as if in anticipation. 

He held up his hands and closed his eyes. Charles was there with him, radiating confidence and love.

It was too difficult to fight the waves. The shear stress might tear the ship apart. So he lifted. The ship quaked as it rose from the sea, water sluicing from its decks in waterfalls. When it shuddered and threatened to shake apart, he held it together. _Come on, baby. Almost there._

Half a kilometer off, he set the ship back down into the cradle of the waves, aimed away from the island. For a minute, he kept his powers entrenched in the metal, watching for signs of breakage in the turbulence of the sea. But nothing cracked or crumbled. The engine kicked and strained, and the ship crested a wave and began to cut slowly away from the cliffs.

When Erik snapped back to himself, his whole body was shaking with effort. Something hot and dark dripped from his nose, cloyed in the back of his throat. He felt as if a giant had picked him up and smashed him against a wall several times over. But the only emotion that swelled in him was pure, hysterical relief.

 _You did it!_ Charles crowed. _You did it, I knew you could. They’re safe now, they’re on their way. You saved them._

We _did,_ Erik corrected woozily.

_Come back to the house. You need to get out of that storm, you’re going to catch a cold._

Erik laughed, tasting blood in his mouth. _Did you learn that from my mother?_

Staggering to his feet, he spat a mouthful of blood into the rain. Tomorrow he was going to be sore as fuck. Even now his legs could barely hold him. He could feel them trembling under his weight as he took a weary step back toward the path.

A vicious gust of wind struck him like an open-handed slap. He stumbled sideways and felt his boots lose purchase on solid ground. Very distantly, in the part of his brain that wasn’t shocked out of coherency, he realized he was toppling over the cliff.

Charles’s scream in his head echoed louder than his own.

*

Erik came awake with a gasp.

The first thing he registered was that he was very much not dead. His entire body hurt way too fucking much for him to be dead, and besides, the sight above him was the very familiar ceiling of the entrance hallway in the house, not some hazy afterlife mirage.

The second thing he registered was Charles’s face hovering over him anxiously. When Erik’s eyes found his, Charles choked out, “I thought — Erik, I thought you were — ”

“I thought I was, too,” Erik said weakly. “What…what happened?”

“You fell from the cliff. You were unconscious. You nearly drowned.”

“How did I…?”

Slowly, he took in the fact that Charles was dripping wet, naked, and shivering violently. He took in the bruise already beginning to darken on Charles’s cheek, and the bloody scrapes on his bare shoulders.

“Charles, you didn’t — ”

“What was I supposed to do?” Charles said, teeth chattering. “I couldn’t just watch you die.”

Erik pushed himself up onto his elbows, glad to find that all his limbs appeared to be in working order. He might have cracked a rib or two, judging by the stabbing pain in his side whenever he breathed, but for falling off a cliff in the middle of a cracking storm, he was surprisingly intact.

“Are you alright?” he asked, turning his attention to Charles. “You’re bleeding. And — ”

The rest of his words died in his throat when he saw the awkward angle of Charles’s bad leg, bone jutting through skin in sharp, bloody relief. Charles offered a pallid smile and said, “Perhaps it hadn’t healed as completely as I’d thought. I’m sure the knock I took against one of the rocks didn’t help.”

“Shit,” Erik breathed, scrambling to kneel beside him. “Shit, this is — fuck, Charles, this is bad.”

“It feels bad,” Charles agreed. “In fact I think I — I ought to lie down.”

Erik caught him as he swayed and cradled him close. He couldn’t stop looking at the glistening white tip of bone jabbing out of Charles’s shin, pale and terrible. “You’re going to be okay,” Erik promised, running trembling fingers through Charles’s hair. “You’re going to be alright.”

But he couldn’t stop thinking of how fucked up Charles’s leg had to be now, broken twice, and worse the second time. How Charles had managed to drag Erik up from the beach and all the way back to the house on a shattered leg was beyond Erik’s imagination. This wouldn’t heal clean, not without intervention. And if it didn’t heal clean…

“I don’t think the chances of my swimming again are very good,” Charles said faintly.

Erik couldn’t reply, at an utter loss for words. After a long, aching silence, he bent his head to Charles’s and said roughly, “You idiot.”

“What?”

“You _idiot_. You can’t change back with your leg like this, can you? How are you going to go home now? What if it doesn’t heal?”

“I had no choice.”

“Yes, you did! You shouldn’t have — you — ”

“Erik.” Charles took his hand, laced their fingers together, and brought Erik’s knuckles to his mouth. He was far, far, too calm. Erik wanted to scream. “I love the ocean. I always will. But do you know what I realized when I felt you fall? When I thought you were going to die?”

Erik shook his head wordlessly.

“I realized I couldn’t live if you were dead. I realized — ” Charles took a sharp, hiccupping breath. “It’s not worth living if I can’t do it with you. Not out in the sea. Not anywhere.”

“That’s…that’s nonsense. You can’t live like this, in this form. You said that before.”

“Erik, the life I want, it’s the life I can have with you. Everything else is just — details.”

Charles smiled up at him with that aching, raw honesty, and all Erik could do was clutch him close and fight back sobs.

*

ONE YEAR LATER

The bed dipping and blankets shifting roused Erik from his light doze. He’d been mostly awake for the last hour or so, but he’d drifted in and out of full consciousness, torn between getting up and luxuriating in the warm coziness of bed. When cold feet pressed against his shins, he hissed and jerked, eyes slitting open. 

“Sorry,” Charles said with a soft laugh. He snuggled up against Erik’s back, fingers icy even through Erik’s shirt when he pressed them to Erik’s chest.

“Jesus,” Erik grumbled, catching his hand and folding them into his own. “Did you wear your gloves?” 

“Yes, but it’s still cold.” 

Twisting around, Erik tugged Charles to his chest, careful of his leg. “You’re freezing. Come here.” 

Charles burrowed into him happily, burying his chilled nose against Erik’s shoulder. Stroking a hand down his back, Erik breathed in his scent, warm and familiar and comforting. Despite Charles’s perpetual grumbling about waking before the sun did, this was always one of their favorite things: Charles coming back to bed after sending off the weather report, sleepy and rumpled and fully prepared to pass out for another two hours at least. 

“How’s your leg?” Erik asked. 

“Fine.” 

“Charles.” 

Charles’s sigh gusted out against his neck. “It hurts. But I made it there and back alright.” 

“If it was hurting, I could have gone.”

“No, we have an agreement.” 

Erik didn’t bother pursuing the argument any further; it was one they’d had probably a dozen times already, and it always ended with Erik capitulating. Despite his leg, Charles was determined to contribute equally to life on the island. Once he’d finished with physical therapy, he’d insisted that Erik divvy up the daily tasks, morning weather report included. Erik had had mercy on him and taken four days out of seven, but he knew Charles hated getting up with the alarm. Still, he’d proven more stubborn than Erik, and refused to adjust the schedule to make it any easier on him. 

After a few minutes, Erik realized his feet wasn’t currently being warmed by sixty pounds of huffing dog. “Where’s Alba?” 

“I gave her her ball.” 

“Ah.” They’d bought Alba a treat ball for her birthday last year, and it was far and away her favorite thing in the world. Once the ball was filled, she could nose it around the house for a whole hour until she’d dug out every single treat. It was extremely useful for keeping her occupied when they wanted some time alone. 

“You didn’t want her coming in, hm?” Erik shifted down to kiss Charles’s ear, then his throat. “Any particular reason why?” 

“Mm.” Charles tilted his neck back. “I thought you might like to warm me up. I _am_ so very cold, after all.” 

Grinning, Erik slid further down. 

Nearly an hour later, they finally made it out to the kitchen. As Charles fed Alba, Erik whipped up breakfast: omelets and toast and sausage, and coffee for him, tea for Charles. 

“That smells _so_ good,” Charles said, inhaling appreciatively. He limped over to Erik’s side, leaning heavily on his cane. “I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Erik said wryly. 

“Amazingly enough, I have to eat every day.” 

“You eat more than anyone I know.” 

“Erik, you don’t know very many people.” 

“For that, you’re getting the bad omelet.” 

As they settled in at the kitchen table, Charles said, “The garden’s looking good. I took a look earlier before I came back in. The tomatoes are starting to grow. And the potatoes! The leaves are so green!” 

“It’s still pretty early in the season for them both,” Erik replied, slathering butter on his toast. “They’ll really start to come in in the next few weeks.” 

“I saw some weeds, too. I can’t believe how fast they grow.” 

“I’m not surprised. It just rained.” Erik sipped his coffee and slid his feet forward, leaning his ankle against Charles’s. “Are you in the garden today?”

“Just in the morning. Then I’ll make lunch and sweep the house.” 

“Don’t forget you wanted to email Moira back tonight.” She and Charles had struck up a friendship over the last year, bonding over their love for the sciences and, surprisingly, crappy romance novels. After Erik had finally emailed Moira with an explanation for why he’d requested all those books, she’d demanded to speak to Charles, and their correspondence had soon far eclipsed the sporadic one she and Erik shared. Sometimes it felt like she was more Charles’s friend than Erik’s, which Erik found amusing. 

“Yes. She emailed me a fascinating new article about ancient sharks.” Charles leaned over to steal some of Erik’s buttered toast. “Some of it is completely wrong, of course, but it was interesting to read anyway.” 

Erik raised his eyebrows. “What do you know about ancient sharks?”

“Erik, I’ve _met_ ancient sharks.”

Somehow, even after all this time, Erik could still be startled by the fact that Charles was a selkie. It was so easy to forget when Erik saw him day in and day out, eating and talking and laughing in his human form. In some ways, Charles was more human than some of the people Erik knew. Even if his life now wasn’t perfect, wasn’t what he might have wished for in an ideal world, Charles threw himself into living it so fully. Erik would never get tired of witnessing it.

After breakfast, they exchanged kisses by the door and parted ways for the morning. Erik headed for the gen shed, double-checked the generators, and then dug out the cleaners for the solar panels. As he floated each one down from the roof for inspection and dusting, he kept a mental tab on Charles in the distance, trackable by the cane Erik had fashioned for him when he’d come home from hospital. As much as he hated the damned thing sometimes because of the visceral reminder of what Charles had sacrificed for him, he had to admit that he liked being able to follow Charles around the island throughout the day. It reassured him, though logically he knew that Charles wasn’t going to up and vanish on him one day.

They orbited around each other for most of the day, bouncing from location to location on one errand or another until finally they converged at the fork in the path in the late afternoon. Charles practically vibrated with excitement as he waited — he loved this part of the day, though he never said as much. He could probably tell that Erik still hadn’t quite let go of his guilt.

“Hello, darling,” Charles said cheerfully as Erik approached. “You’re early.”

“I finished mowing the trails faster than I thought I would.”

“I’m not complaining.”

He had the sealskin bundled in his arms. Erik took it from him and then offered his arm. Charles slipped his hand into the crook of Erik’s elbow, and they made their slow, painstaking way down the pebbled path to the beach.

By the time they finally reached the sand, the sun touched the horizon in the distance. In the soft pink glow of the sky, Charles stripped out of his coat, sweater, trousers, and shoes. When he held out his hands for the sealskin, Erik handed it over and watched as Charles wrapped it around his bare shoulders.

“Be back in a while,” Charles said, smiling back at him as he stepped into the surf.

“I’ll be here,” Erik promised.

He watched as Charles waded out several meters until the water lapped at his chin. Then he dove under a wave and was gone.

After a few minutes, Erik sat down in the sand, resting his elbows on his bent knees. Though he tried not to let his gaze wander in that direction, he inevitably found his eyes drawn up to the lighthouse, to the cliff he’d fallen from. Every time he stared at it, he was shocked all over again at having survived. It was an impossible distance to fall. The fact that he hadn’t shattered anything upon hitting the water had been a miracle in and of itself. And then Charles — brave, stupid Charles had saved his life. Not a day went by that Erik didn’t think of that, and of everything that came after: the emergency flight to hospital; the six days waiting in agony for updates on Charles’s condition; the endless barrage of questions from Erik’s bosses, search and rescue, authorities from the mainland; and then, finally, the decision to release Charles from hospital and allow him to return home.

Erik had no doubt that Charles had used his telepathy to smooth his way back to Genosha. The police had been a little _too_ accommodating. The doctors had been obviously loose with their recommendations — Erik suspected prescriptions had been handed out a bit liberally, and rigorous physical therapy at an approved facility had been amended to home physical therapy with regular online check-ins. And Erik’s bosses at the bureau hadn’t batted an eye when he’d informed them that the house on Genosha Island had a new permanent resident.

Of course, they hadn’t swan dived into a fairy tale ending. Though Charles had had corrective surgery on his leg, the doctors had told him that he’d likely always walk with a limp. Physical therapy, for which Erik had served as drill sergeant, had been miserable for them both — Charles had been in so much pain every session that it had often ended in shouting and tears. But slowly, painfully, it had gotten easier, and Charles had learned to walk again, and the pain had lessened. As the doctors had predicted, he still had a heavy limp and occasional pain, but all in all, Charles declared that it could have been worse. 

The heavier blow had been the realization that even in his seal form, Charles’s new disability carried through. He could swim short distances, could even hunt for brief periods, but he’d lost his grace in the water. Though Erik never could see any obvious injury on Charles’s selkie form, Charles swam awkwardly, as if half of his tail refused to cooperate with the other.

“It’s alright,” Charles had said tremulously after the first time he’d attempted to return to the water. He was shivering hard under his sealskin, which he clutched around his shoulders. “It’s what I expected.”

But Erik had seen in the grief in his eyes, and in that moment, he would have given anything — _anything_ — to give Charles back his ability to swim properly, to give him back the sea. No matter how many times Charles swore he’d make the same choice all over again without a thought, Erik knew it crushed him to have lost something so vital to his being.

And yet, he had learned to adapt. Every day they came down to the beach, and Charles swam leisurely in the setting sun, enjoying a few hours of the water. Sometimes he even coaxed Erik in to join him, though the water was often too frigid for Erik to indulge him.

It wasn’t perfect, Erik thought, but they were happy. That was all he could ever ask for.

After a long while, he shook his head to clear it of all melancholy thoughts and stood up, brushing off his jeans. The cold was getting to him — he had to get up and walk to generate some heat. As he made his way down the shoreline, blowing lightly on his hands to warm them, he looked out to the golden sea. In the rippling waves, he saw the glimpse of a tail.

 _I’m going to go up and start dinner,_ he projected, trusting Charles to catch the thought. _I’ll come back down once it’s done and help you up._

_No, wait._

_Are you sure? You can stay out longer if you’d like._

A moment later, Charles emerged from the surf, spluttering slightly as he wiped his wet hair back from his face. Over his shoulder, he carried his sealskin, which he gave over to Erik as soon as they were close enough. Though the motion was automatic for Charles by now, Erik still thrilled at it every time, knowing that Charles trusted him with this, with his whole self.

“I wanted to help with dinner,” Charles explained as he tugged his clothes back on. “You said you’d teach me to make that soup, remember?”

“Cholent.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, it won’t be anywhere near as good as my mother’s, but we can try.”

“I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”

Once he was dressed, Erik held out his hand. Charles took it, lacing their fingers together, and leaned into Erik’s side, radiating warm contentment.

“Ready?” Erik asked, offering over the cane.

Charles smiled. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
